If you were to ask those who know me well to describe my personality, the adjectives would likely lean heavily towards “efficient.” While I like to imagine they might sprinkle in terms like “clever” or “witty,” you certainly wouldn’t find “sentimental” among them. Yet, despite my pragmatic nature, I sometimes find myself overwhelmed by nostalgia, particularly when it comes to my children.
It’s not the grand milestones that get to me—the loss of a baby tooth or the first time my little ones forget to give me a hug at the school gate. Those moments tug at my heartstrings, as expected. Instead, it’s the subtle, everyday experiences that unexpectedly pull me into a tide of reminiscence.
Recently, while dusting off the bookshelf in the shared bedroom of my boys, I had a moment of clarity. Over the years, I have gradually cleared out the baby toys and board books, donating or gifting the countless books that my children simply didn’t connect with. What remains, however, is our treasured collection: the titles we have read repeatedly, their pages lovingly taped together, spines cracked from countless readings—the books that have been a vital part of our family story.
Standing there, I felt a wave of emotion as I recognized that those white shelves hold a decade’s worth of bedtime rituals. Each book is a chapter in the adventure of my boys’ childhoods, a collection of stories and words that have woven together our shared experiences. It’s difficult to think about which books I should keep and which ones to pack away for others to enjoy.
“Goodnight room, goodnight moon.” I can still hear the echoes of those nightly readings, counting the “three little bears sitting on chairs” with tiny fingers pointing to the illustrations. How many times did I cradle my little boy in my arms, his head nestled against my shoulder, as we journeyed together through those pages?
We shared countless tales about brave little kittens and a pair of mittens, all while getting lost in stories filled with cars, trucks, and all things that go. I remember vividly the nights we took adventures with the “Great Big Little Red Train,” guiding my boys into peaceful sleep.
“And a little toy house, and a young mouse.” We would sometimes cozy up on the sofa, other times in our big bed, snuggled in blankets, indulging in the whimsical adventures of Ms. Frizzle and the wonders of the universe. We roared with laughter alongside Jack and his quirky friends, getting lost in Charlie Cook’s favorite book, all while tucked under the warm glow of bedside lamps.
“Goodnight clocks and goodnight socks.” Each well-loved spine I touched revealed the evolution of my children’s tastes. My older son gravitated towards books about flags and tornadoes, while my younger one adored the Bearenstain Bears and the Magic Tree House series. Despite my earnest attempts, neither of them ever warmed up to Dr. Seuss’s rhymes, a disappointment that lingered. Yet, we delighted in the antics of that mischievous gray pigeon, and “Aggle, Flaggle, Klabble!” became a beloved phrase in our home.
“And goodnight to the old lady, whispering ‘hush.’” Among the books lining those shelves are timeless classics like “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” and the “Harry Potter” series, waiting for my younger son to explore them in his own time. These later reads hold significance, but they lack the shared intimacy of our bedtime stories. Those words will now be absorbed in solitude, their voices distinctly his, rather than mine.
“Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” These beloved books evoke a longing for the days when my boys were smaller—those soft hands, the sweet smell of baby dreams, and the warmth of their tiny bodies cuddled close.
Allow me a moment to grieve the passing of those enchanting nights, when eyelids would flutter closed, and I’d whisper softly, “I love you all the way to the moon. And back.”
If you promise to keep this secret, I’ll confess that I still sometimes whisper those words to their sleeping forms, lost in their own dreams filled with loose teeth and budding independence.
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In summary, while the bedtime stories may have come to a close for now, the memories remain vivid. They are treasures that shape our shared history, a reminder of the love and connection that fills our home.