Bedtime

I haven't posted in a while, so there is a lot I could write about. I could write about how this past week was one of the most tiring and hectic weeks Alan and I have had since moving here. I could tell you about how the girls, poor things, took turns succumbing to a wretched virus that is making its way through the school system. The symptoms seemed commonly to be vomiting and high fever. I could write about something odd that happens to you after you have children. The natural human instinct to back away when a child is projectile vomiting is corrupted when you become a parent. After you have kids, when a child starts spewing in public, you have a sick urge to rush forward and catch the the mess in your hands. You somehow think that it's your duty to spare the restaurant's floor.

But I'll spare you all those scary stories about this past week. I'll skip to the happy end in which the princesses get better, play happily and sleep peacefully in their beds.

Or I could share tonight's bedtime story.

Every night that we put her to bed, Meggie asks us how many songs we know. I always lowball: "I know two." "Nooooo," she says, "you know lots. You know 'America the Beautiful' and the ABCs and 'Twinkle Little Star' and 'Baby Mine' and 'Down by the Salley Gardens'..."

That's her favorite. She always picks that one. And it's a good thing, too. Because 3 is a crazy age. Three is also the average number of timeouts we have every day. This is the age of challenge.

I sing.

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take life easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

And then I sigh. Because I need that reminder.

"Goodnight, Meggie. Love you," I say and switch on the night light.

She rolls over and says, "I love you too, Mom. So much. I even love you when I'm misbehaving. I don't mean to misbehave, Mom. I don't mean to."

"I know, baby," I say. "Daddy and I always love you. Good night."

She's already asleep.

True story.

Good night.