That last hour of the day before bedtime just may be the most important hour of childhood.
It’s a time when everything else in the world stops. There’s no TV in the background. The house gets a little quieter. Things slow down bit.
Sure, there is still a stream of events, but it’s constant. Predictable. Stable. And full of love.
I remember it even when I was a kid. My dad reading chapters of Winnie the Pooh to my sister and me. My mom standing in the frame of our door for what seemed like hours (and it sometimes was) talking about whatever was on our minds.
Even when I was no longer a young child, I remember having important and meaningful conversations with my parents just before bed. For some reason, it was the time when you could talk about anything. Barriers that existed during the day of subjects that seemed difficult to discuss with parents dissolved at bedtime. Their divorce, why people die, school difficulties…it all came out when it was time for bed. And I slept better.
And as I sit now writing this, listening to The Munchkin’s solid, stable, sleepy breathing on the monitor, I realize that we have made the same true for her. And I love it.
Every night right after dinner we head up the stairs and begin our routine. And even though The Munchkin knows that she’ll have to go to sleep soon, she’s excited for this special time we spend together right before bed.
Every other night consists of a bath. The rest include extra potty practice and sometimes a little bonus play/wrestle time with daddy (which doesn’t exactly count as a “wind-down” activity but is so full of giggles I can’t find it in myself to ask them to simmer down). Then we peel off The Munchkin’s clothes, put on a fresh diaper and wrestle her into her pajamas.
That’s when the real fun begins. Freshly pj’d and ready to snuggle, The Munchkin picks some books from her table and the three of us read them together. For one of the few times in her busy toddler day, she is happy to sit quietly with us. In fact, she insists on sitting on one of our laps. She pulls a book off her table, proudly walks over to whomever is the reader that evening and promptly plops herself onto that lap before you could ever have the chance of directing her elsewhere (not that anyone ever would though). We usually go through three books before we pick them up and tuck her, with droopy eyes and droopier pig-tails, into bed.
That time is so full of love and family that it almost makes my heart burst. Even the pets lounge in her room with us, as much a part of the routine as the books and the hugs and the love.
It’s a rare evening when The Hubs and I both are not involved in the bedtime routine. Those final hugs and kisses of the night are sometimes the absolute best part of the day and there isn’t much I’m willing to trade for them.
Every night as we tip-toe out of her room after saying our last “Night, nights” I can’t help but think about how special that bit of family time was. More than even dinner together. Because dinner involves lots of rushing and cutting and praying that there is no choking that it seems there isn’t as much time for talking and enjoying each other as a family.
But bedtime, oh bedtime is just something special
And I think about the stability and happiness and love it’s providing for The Munchkin. That same stability and happiness and love it provided for me.
And I pray that it never changes.
The books may be different and will probably eventually phase out. The conversation will probably mature. But I hope that it’s always there. That we’re always there. Together. To knock down barriers and let The Munchkin know that, at bedtime at least, she’s always safe and sound. And always, always loved.
