When I tuck my daughter in at night, she often fiddles with a strand of her hair and asks, “Can I tell you something?” It’s a classic stalling tactic that seems to be in every kid’s playbook. They may not know how to ride a bike yet, and they think ketchup is spicy, but when it comes to delaying bedtime, they’re absolute pros.
I let out a small sigh, nod, and listen as she recounts the most trivial details of her day. I try to capture the look on her face, remembering when it was only capable of producing desperate cries or sweet, gummy grins that reassured me I wasn’t completely failing at this parenting thing. When she takes a breath, I jump in to say I love her and with a quick “goodnight,” I make my escape down the hall to indulge in some much-needed adult time.
On some sentimental nights, I creep back into her room later, a denim-clad ghost in the dim light, and talk to her softly under the moon’s glow. When she’s asleep, it’s the rare moment her body is at peace. No more flailing limbs, noisy antics, or inquisitive questions like, “Why is that man looking at us?”
In those quiet moments, I can trace the contours of her face, gently push away the sweaty strands of hair that have settled like vines on her forehead, and softly rub the bridge of her nose, as if it might grant me three wishes.
Her room is warm and thick with the air from the humidifier, her little nose often prone to midnight nosebleeds (definitely not a task I’m excited about). The night-light casts a soft lemon hue, and outside, the city exhales after a long day.
It’s my time to share a few thoughts with her.
I tell her about my favorite part of the day — the way her off-key songs fill the car in the morning as we drive down familiar streets. Those wild notes escape through the cracked window, becoming part of our city’s morning melody.
I tell her every time I see my reflection in her face, I’m taken aback, like I’ve just bitten my cheek. Between sleep deprivation and life’s challenges, I sometimes forget the moment I first touched her tiny head, panicking because it felt just like those dolphins I swam with in Mexico. I remember how dark the room became and how each nerve ending ignited when she first lay on my chest.
I promise her I will strive to do better tomorrow. I’ll listen more closely, show more patience, and remember her limits instead of my often unrealistic expectations.
I tell her that my love for her is immense — overwhelming, really — and goes beyond what my heart, my head, or my words can express.
Some nights, as I quietly rise from beside her, I notice a shift. Her legs might kick, her eyelids flutter, and an arm drapes over her stuffed animals, fingers unfurling like flower petals. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if she’s sensed my whispers, wrapped in a protective embrace. As I gently close the door behind me, I leave her to dream, hoping she’ll have amazing stories to share come morning.
In conclusion, those moonlit conversations are a cherished ritual, a way to connect with my daughter in a world that can often feel chaotic. Whether it’s through sharing our days or simply basking in each other’s presence, these moments are what truly matter.