As I tuck my daughter into bed each night, she twists a strand of hair around her finger and asks, “Can I tell you something?” This is her favorite way to delay bedtime, a tactic that all children seem to master. While they may not yet drive or understand the complexities of flavor, they excel in the art of parental persuasion.
I let out a gentle sigh, nodding as I listen to her recount the trivial details of her day. I observe her expressions, trying to recall a time when her face was capable of nothing more than the needy cries or gummy, relieved smiles that assured me I wasn’t failing at this parenting thing. When she finally takes a breath, I tell her I love her, and with a firm “goodnight,” I make my escape down the hallway towards more adult pursuits.
On particularly sentimental nights, I return to her room hours later, quietly stepping in like a denim-clad ghost, speaking to her in the soft glow of the moonlight. While she sleeps, her body is tranquil and still, free from the flailing, jumping, and incessant questioning about the world around her. It’s in these moments that I can gently trace the contours of her face, push aside the damp locks of hair that have settled on her forehead, and lightly rub her nose as if it were a genie’s lamp waiting to grant wishes.
In her slumber, her room is enveloped in the warm, humid air, a reminder of her nighttime rituals. The night-light casts a soft, lemony glow, and outside, the buildings exhale after a long day. This is my sacred time to share my thoughts with her.
I tell her about the highlight of my day. Each morning, as we drive down familiar streets, her high-pitched, off-key renditions of imaginary songs fill the backseat, transforming the air around us into a vibrant melody. Once those notes escape her lips, they drift out the window, becoming part of the city’s symphony.
I confess that seeing my reflection in her features always catches me off guard, like a sudden pinch on my cheek. It’s easy to forget, amidst the chaos of life, the moment I first touched her tiny head, overwhelmed by the joy and panic of new motherhood, feeling the world around me fade as she was placed on my chest.
I promise her that I will strive to be a better parent tomorrow. I will listen more closely. I will practice patience and respect her boundaries, tempering my often unrealistic expectations.
I tell her, once more, just how deeply I love her. It is a love that is immense, overwhelming, and transcends the limits of what words can convey.
Sometimes, as I rise to leave, I notice subtle movements. Her legs might kick, her eyelids flutter, or an arm might stretch out to embrace her stuffed animals, fingers unfurling like petals. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if she has sensed my presence, felt my whispered confessions wrapping around her like a protective blanket. Quietly, I close her door, leaving her to dream, eager for the morning when she will have wonderful tales to share.
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In summary, tucking my daughter in at night transforms into a reflective ritual—an opportunity to express my love, share my thoughts, and acknowledge the beauty of our bond.