Mother and Son's Bedtime Reading Ritual. |
A NIGHTTIME RITUAL Years ago I gave my son a book. He read it many, many times. It’s nighttime, time for you to go to sleep. Instead you fidget and cry and I just don’t know what to do. Finally I pick you up. I hold you close to me and begin to sway gently, back and forth. Your crying finally subsides, and I take you over to the rocking chair. I hold you gently and rub your back and coo sweet nothings into your ear. I sway slowly back and forth. Your crying subsides. I hold you gently. Your little body becomes limp, and you surrender to the gentle motion, and the beating of my heart. It is a wonderful moment for both of us. I feel so comforted by the sound of your breathing. I vow never again to just let you cry until you fall asleep, as so many other mothers have suggested I do. “If you start it now, they’ll expect it all the time,” they say. As we rock back and forth, I think to myself, what a wonderful, gentle way to fall asleep, though. So every night we rock, and I sing or whisper to him gently. Hush, my baby, don't you cry. I will sing you a lullabye. Sleep, sleep. Later we read books together every night. Even after he outgrew his crib, moved into his own little bed, and we could no longer fit in the rocking chair together, we continued to enjoy our little nighttime ritual. A is for Apple. B is for Baby. We read. Every night we read. The books were bigger then and he had a fascination for trucks, so for some time we read about trucks. We read about little trucks, and big trucks, and dump trucks, and garbage trucks. We read books about the kind of truck that daddy drives, and the big, big truck that the nice man let you sit in and blow the horn. I like little trucks. I like big trucks. I like all trucks, but red ones best. Then one day we were reading the big truck book, and you pointed to the words. “I can read this to you, Mommy,” you said, and we slowly went through the pages. He didn't get every word right, so I helped him sound out the words. We spelled them and talked about what they meant, and soon he was reading the book to me. I can read this to you, Mommy. See, that is the word “truck.” I can read! After that we went on to other books, and I would read to him and then he would try to read to me. One night he became very frustrated because we were reading a new book about dragons, and it said it was an “I Can Read By Myself” book; but the words were strange to him and he sat there crying in frustration because he couldn’t read the story. So I hugged him and we went through the words and pictures, page by page, until finally he had a new book to read to me. I can't do it! Tears flowed. So we read, word by word, and looked at pictures. I was a sucker for any child's book that I saw that I thought he would like - animal books and car books and Winnie-the-Pooh and Wind In the Willows, and many, many more. We read them to each other every night for years - long after he could easily read the books on his own. Even when he slept in a big bed all by himself - he still wanted the bedtime story. “He’s spoiled now,” people would tell me. No, that time together was precious, and I’ve never been sorry we spent our evenings together like that for so many years. Bedtime story time. Such a special time for us. Hold those moments close. My son is a young man now, about to get married, and we’ve not read together for many years. He still loves to read, though. He has his favorites: Lord of the Rings, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Catch-22. He has a wonderful imagination. When he was little and we read together, I used to tell him that as long as he could read, he could go anywhere in the universe he wanted. Imagine the whole universe is yours, and you can go anywhere. This year he gave me a special present for my birthday - a brand new copy of The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide. He enclosed a card, which read: Long ago, I borrowed a book from you. I've had this book of yours for a very long time. This is a special book for me, now. It has, over the course of many years and for better or worse, been a critical tool in the shaping of who I am today. It has become a near sacred tome for me. It is very old now, and lies in tatters - dog-eared, spine broken, mended, and broken again from re-readings beyond count. I'm giving you a new copy of the book – it's just like the copy you loaned to me. Happy birthday, Mom. I love you. And I love you, too. More than you know. I'm beginning to think we're on our way to closing the circle. I took care of him for so many years, and the time will come - not too soon, I hope - when he might have to take care of me. I hope I'll never need that, but I know he'll be there for me if I do - and if my eyesight is not good, or if I should become childlike, I hope he will sit with me at night and read me a story. Come, sit, stay a bit and read to me. I want to go away someplace. |