My hands paused for an extra moment this morning; hovering over the shoes that would carry you off to Kindergarten. For a fleeting moment I thought if I waited long enough I could turn back the clock. Perhaps time would settle into stillness long enough so I could revisit all the times I’ve rushed you out of childhood and forgotten you are still beautifully wrapped in innocence and wonder.
She woke close to her normal time, and cried out for someone, anyone to rescue her from the confines of her lonely crib. She made it 4 hours, which is a victory – in the sick and twisted parental-trenches-kind-of-way. She’s 19 months and a ball of fire in the best way.
There have been countless nights of pleading with her to go to bed; to stay in bed; to sleep like a big girl. Countless nights of wishing we didn’t have to step so gently or purposefully on our old wooden floors. Nights we wish we had more time to connect with one another before one of us was lost to the rocking chair and the other to exhaustion.
I wrote this for my son Nash last year. The news headlines remind us that our world is filled with darkness and heartache and evil. I am convinced that we must find and remind ourselves of the goodness that surrounds us. So write it down, tell that story, post that picture and let us remind each other of the goodness we so often overlook.
Reading to our son Nash is one of our most beloved rhythms. We enter a world where time stands still and pages spring to life.
I can still remember the very first story Kate and I ever read to Nash. We settled into bed, our infant son swaddled between us, and we opened “On the Night You Were Born” by Nancy Tillman. I managed three words before I was a mess. (The I cannot speak another word variety). Gratitude and thankfulness poured out of me.