Bedtime

It started out as a bath, book, bottle-of-milk-before-bouncing-him-to-sleep routine.  That was when he was so small that his entire little body still fit on my lap.

The bouncing turned into swaying.

The swaying turned into holding him for one song on his lullaby cd: “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” then kissing him goodnight and putting him in the crib.

The swaddle blanket was exchanged for a sleep sack.

He fell asleep every night with Toby clutched in one hand, his pacifier still moving rhythmically in his mouth.

The books changed from Fish Kisses to Goodnight, Moon.

The bottle of milk was dropped after too many soggy mornings.

The lullaby cd was tucked in a drawer in favor of a live version of the first song.

The bath was regularly followed by a naked baby dance before the pajamas could be wrestled on.

The goodnight kiss was given along with a request for a hug for Mama.  This request was often denied, but the kiss was never refused.  He hugged plenty during the day, but at night perhaps he needed his space.

The crib became a toddler bed.

One song became two as we added “I Love You Today” to our repertoire.

The sleep sack was folded away and Gramma’s blanket has to be tucked-tucked in snug as a bug in a rug around the limbs that were just hanging off my lap while we read a Thomas the Train book.

Seven o’clock is still bedtime.

An hour later, I hear a little voice talking to Toby.

I walk in and ask what he needs.  A change?  Some water?  A lost pacifier retrieved?

“You need some songs.”

So once more, I sing to him that I love him today and I’ll love him tomorrow, and how I wonder about that little star.

And then I kiss his forehead a second time and say, “I love you.  Have a good rest.  Have sweet dreams, and I’ll see you in the morning.  Good night, Toby.  Good night, Sebastian.”