If you were to ask those who know me well to describe my personality, they’d likely use words like “efficient” and “organized.” Perhaps they’d throw in “clever” or “witty,” with a sprinkle of “thoughtful” or “insightful.” However, “sentimental” wouldn’t typically make the list. Yet, like everyone else, I have my moments of nostalgia, especially regarding my children.
Interestingly, it’s not always the expected moments that bring on the sappiness—the loss of a tooth or the first time my child forgets to hug me goodbye at school. Those moments tug at my heartstrings, but I anticipate them. Instead, it’s the little things that unexpectedly invoke a flood of memories, leaving me momentarily speechless.
Just the other day, while dusting the bookcase in my sons’ shared room, I paused to reflect. Over the years, I’ve gradually cleared out the baby toys and board books that were once a staple in our home. I’ve donated countless volumes that my boys showed no interest in, yet what remains is our treasured collection: the books we’ve read countless times, their spines cracked and pages held together with tape. These are the stories that have been a part of our family’s journey.
As I stood there, I realized that those white shelves encapsulate a decade of bedtime rituals. They serve as a treasure map of my sons’ childhood, filled with enchanting tales and unforgettable moments. Running my feather duster over the spines, I felt a bittersweet pang of loss, recognizing that it had been ages since we last explored many of those beloved stories.
Each book evokes memories of snuggles and sleepy eyes drifting shut before I could finish reading. That bookcase is a vault of shared experiences, bound in ink and illustration. How could I decide which ones to keep and which to pass on for others to cherish?
“In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon.” I can still picture my boys counting the “three little bears sitting on chairs” with tiny fingers pointing at the pages. How many evenings did I cradle a chubby little one in my lap, soft hair resting against my chin, as we read those lines together?
There were “two little kittens and a pair of mittens,” with giggles and wiggles as they snuggled impossibly close. We journeyed through tales of cars, trucks, and brave little engines, with the “Great Big Little Red Train” guiding my boys into sweet slumber.
“And a little toy house, and a young mouse.” Sometimes we read together on the couch, wrapped in blankets, marveling at the adventures of a tiny snail on the back of a massive humpback whale. We would roar, roll our eyes, and gnash our teeth while tucked under dim bedside lights, immersed in fantastical worlds.
“Goodnight clocks and goodnight socks.” As I trace the spines of the books, I recall how each of my sons developed distinct tastes—my older son gravitating towards books about flags and tornadoes while the younger adored the Bearenstain Bears and Magic Tree House. To my chagrin, neither took to Dr. Seuss’s rhymes, despite my enthusiastic encouragement. Yet we loved the misadventures of that cheeky gray pigeon and laughed at the antics of Leonardo and Sam.
“Goodnight to the old lady, whispering ‘hush.’” The feather duster glides over classics like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Harry Potter—books awaiting my younger son’s exploration, though I suspect he’ll choose to read them solo, just as his brother did. The Percy Jackson series and the Wimpy Kid books are part of our collection too, carrying their own significance, but they lack the shared voices of bedtime storytelling.
“Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” These cherished books make me long for those cuddly little bodies, soft hands, and the sweet scent of baby dreams. They remind me of the peaceful nights spent together, drifting into sleep as I whispered, “I love you all the way to the moon. And back.”
I’ll share a little secret: I still whisper that phrase to my sleeping boys, who are lost in their own dreams of loose teeth and tween adventures.
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In summary, the act of reading bedtime stories has woven a tapestry of memories that I cherish deeply. The physical books may remain, but the moments we shared are what truly resonate in my heart.