bedtime Archives

Significance

If my eyes were closed, I’d feel like I was on my side porch in the summer, listening to the rain, the swing gently swaying front…back…front…back…

And as I watched her, I think she was thinking the same.

The Queen has had a few weeks of absolute astuteness (is there such a word?) She’s been awesome in letting me know what she needs & wants. Fuzzy socks. Her sunglasses cleaned. The car window down because she smells a dead skunk.

No worries, chinquapin, we rollin’ all four down!

She’s also seemed wired up, as I say. Full speed ahead. Rare form. Active.

Not bad things, mind you. Just “on” things.

So, I accommodate.

Night time routines

This evening, I readied her for bed. I collected her pj’s, a fresh towel, washcloth, and changed her bed sheet, while she sat on the potty reading a 13-month-old edition of my Harvard Business Review.

It was bath time.

Every time for the past few decades, I’ve had two methods of bath time: let the water run to warm, lift her into the tub, and remove the wand to rinse her while she sits in the tub; or fill the tub, add Epsom salt, baking soda, and lavender oil, and hold my arms under her to give her buoyancy to aid in the relaxation, then rinse accordingly.

But tonight…tonight I was going to let her experience something new.

A shower.

I stood her and stepped her over into the tub, the shower head spraying a rainstorm (that’s the setting) into the tub. Instead of sitting her down, I let her stand. Back to the spray. Water pitterpatterpitterpattering on her, warm water running down her head, to her back, shoulders, to her arms, and exiting out of her fingers that positioned themselves in front of her, tip-to-tip on each hand, as if instructing the droplets where to go.

Stillness.

She tilted her head slightly back and closed her eyes. I just knew she was relishing the feeling of the water cascading down her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. She stood silent. Motionless.

And I let her relish.

I was, too.

The power of water

We stood for 3 minutes. Then 5. Then 8. I worried that the water would turn cold. Or my arms would grow weak. Or her legs would give out. The water seemed to turn into tiny, rubber beads that bounced off her now caramel-colored hair. They ricocheted in unison. A cadence formed as we stood, her with her eyes closed, hands out with palms facing toward her, my hands and arms holding her weight…so she could experience what we all (at least most) have. I noticed her eyes closed, and a contented smile on her face as she soaked in her standing-shower experience. And I….became lost in the moment…my shirt soaked…my jeans now stuck to my legs.

It was bedtime.

I turned her, sat her down, and bathed her like I’ve done the past three decades. She was pliable, mellow, smiling, and what I perceived as happy for enjoying her first shower. Once finished, I stepped her over the side of the tub, dried her, lotioned and powdered her, combed her hair, sprayed it with Pravana (how’d she become so bougie??) and donned her in her cozy pjs—a combo of a t-shirt/sweatshirt and long-johns/fuzzy pants. And fuzzy socks. Have to have fuzzy socks.

To bed she goes. Teeth brushed. Drink of water. Monkey bear presented. Prayers said. Kisses given. Obligatory photos & videos…

“Yes, you’re beautiful,” I tell her. She feels prissy, and fresh, and relaxed and calm and Zen-like.

And I’m all emotional.

Thirty-one and-a-half years and she has her first shower. I’m thankful that He shows me the “little” things that can make a huge difference. The “little” things that bring huge joy.

I know I’ll never see mine the same….

Thank you, God, for making the seemingly insignificant so significant. It really does matter.

Middle-of-the-Night Awakenings & Unexpected Gifts

She talks in her sleep. Not very often, but she definitely talks in her sleep. I hear her on the baby monitor as clearly as if she were lying in bed with me. What does she say? “Muh-muh” which, when translated, means “cereal”. So, apparently the Queen has frequent dreams about her cream of wheat with butter & cinnamon, oatmeal with brown sugar and toast, and—because she is my daughter, afterall—Boo Berry.

Then there are occasions where she’s fully awake & talking. A typical night finds me summoned to her room with a drawn out “Ommmmmaaaaa” to take her to the potty, or bring her some water, or find her Meer that she’s dropped & can’t find because it’s dark, or file a jagged fingernail that she discovered at 2:30 a.m.

Or all the above.

Last night, we had both. She awakened and called out for me. “Ommmmmaaaaaa,” she said. I hopped out of bed, opened her door, and asked, “What do you need, Punkin’?” From the darkness, she says, “Meer”(I leave the light off so as not to wake her up even more.) I’m usually awakened by the sound of her mirror hitting her wood floor or bouncing off the baseboards, but this time, I’d heard nothing. Deductive reasoning told me the Meer was still on her bed, but out of reach for her to find in the dark.

It was.

I handed it to her, kissed her mouth then gave her a sideways kiss on the dip above the bridge of her nose between her eyebrows. “Night-night, I love you,” I whispered. “Ah nah nah,” she said (that’s Queen-speak for “I love you.”)

I climbed back into bed, fully expecting to be called again. I don’t close my eyes until I hear her rhythmic breathing, which tells me she’s back to sleep. It didn’t take long before that happened, and the cadence lulled me to sleep.

Sometime later, I was awakened again. “Momma,” she said. It was quiet. Clear. I lay still, listening for the familiar sound of stirring as she sits up in bed, which lets me know if I’m needed or if she’s simply talking in her sleep.

Continued silence.

And then, once more, “Momma.” This time, I could hear her smiling when she said it.

So many times I’ve looked at her & said, “I sure wish I knew what was going through that beautiful, wild-haired head of yours.”

In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had even thought about rising, I did. My daughter was thinking about—dreaming about—me.

Why was this so awesome? Why was this profound?

It was all in the way she said it. I’ve always been “Omma” when she needs me to pick up her Good Housekeeping magazine she’s dropped. Or walk her to the swing. Or feed her lunch. Or when she’s calling for me to watch her play air guitar while her keyboard plays the pre-programmed tunes of “Camptown Ladies.” Doo-dah. Doo-dah.

I am “Momma” when she’s sitting on my lap with her arms around me as I rock her back & forth…back & forth, or when she’s feeling particularly sentimental and gives me kisses me on the forehead. I am “Momma” when she wants to make sure I know she loves me.

So, while lying in bed across the hall from sleeping beauty, I finally was able to know just what was going through that beautiful wild-haired head of hers. I was.

Thank You, Lord. A blessing, indeed.

britnisnooze You can read more about Britni here.

Bedtime Rituals & Hair Brushing

Think about hair for a moment. We wash it. We brush it. We style it. We comb it. We pull it up in a ponytail or hide it under a ball cap. How many times a day do you have to brush your bangs from your eyes? We do it mindlessly. And at the end of the day, some of us take our hair down. Perhaps brush it again just before going to bed.

Now think about not being able to do any of that.

As I readied the Queen for bed tonight, we were going through her nightly ritual. Hands washed. Pajamas on after a slathering of “sleepy” lotion. Two pair of socks–“peh” as she calls them–the bottom layer are cotton, the top are fuzzy. She rubs her pointer finger across her teeth. “No, I’ve not forgotten,” I tell her, as I retrieve her toothbrush. After I brush her teeth and get her a drink of water, I get the hairbrush out of the cabinet.

She’s sitting on the side of her bed now, legs swinging, head down so she can look into her Meer and check her “pearly whites” as I call them.

And I begin to brush her hair.

She doesn’t look up. Instead, she watches me through the Meer, and I see her noticing her hair. It’s particularly shiny tonight, and I’m surprised by how the single light bulb in her ceiling light creates the look of spun gold in her strands.

I make sure her hair isn’t tucked into the collar of her shirt–and I keep brushing. Her legs swinging.

I take my time. Make sure to get from forehead to nape. Temples. Then back again. I lean in and sniff deeply, and am reminded by the citrus-scent that I used extra conditioner during her spa bath. Hence the shine.

Her legs stop swinging. She holds the Meer up and looks at me through it. “Ah na na,” she says. “I love you, too, Punkin.”

“Pretty” she signs, as she looks at her hair. “Yes, your hair is beautiful.”

A giant yawn nearly makes her face disappear and she lies back. I sideways kiss the dip above the bridge of her nose between her eyebrows, & tell her goodnight. I’m humbled. I’m thankful. Those small things that we take for granted, that we do without thinking, my sweet girl can’t do for herself. But I can for her.

And so I do.

You can read more about Britni here.