It’s Time To Sleep
It’s time for bed little mouse, little mouse,
Darkness is falling all over the house.

My daughter is perched in my lap, smelling of Johnson’s Babywash and Babypowder. The sweet smell of clean baby wafts up. She’s wearing her blue pajamas. We’re reading one of the favorite night-time books, Time for Bed, by Mem Fox. It’s a story of various animal mothers (no fathers) persuading their little ones to go to sleep. She’s enjoying the last vestige of babyhood—the bottle before bedtime. Slurping happily while Daddy reads.

It’s time for bed, little goose little goose,
The stars are out and on the loose.

We’ve always read stories before going to bed, even before she knew the story lines. Back then, I think she just liked the cadence of my voice, the closeness, the kisses on her neck, sweet and clean from the recent tubby. I’ve always enjoyed our reading time, hamming up the voices of barnyard animals and little blue engines, making horse neighs and cow moos. These times are made even more special when she casually reaches up to feel the day’s stubble on my chin, the reverberation of my voice while telling the story.

It’s time to sleep little bee little bee,
Yes, I love you and you love me.

We read our stories and talk about them a lot. There’s the Little Blue Engine that we talk about while riding the small train at the zoo, the balloons like what lifted Curious George way up high over the city, or the dolphins swimming in the ocean like the little girl and her mother in the story where they swim out with their snorkels and play with them. On the rare occasions when she wakes up from a nightmare or is cranky and restless with a cold, I’ll tell her stories, made up on the fly. We’ve talked about the King and the Queen who lived in the tree house kingdom and had a little princess daughter with the same name as she does (what are the chances?) and who have a royal birdbath which one day attracts a large golden bird.

It’s time to sleep little deer, little deer,
The very last kiss is almost here.

I’m reading this page and she knows full well the story is almost over. I continue, but some small part of me is dwelling on that line; the very last kiss is almost here. I suspect a loving God views us as I view my daughter. I imagine him putting us down for the last time and we, clinging stubbornly to flesh and blood, resist. He is no doubt as amused as I and tells us softly, “It’s okay, tomorrow we’ll go out and play in the sun.” Yet we fight, unable to see past the shadows of night into the promise of morning.

The story is finished. We go outside to say good night to the moon; Tex, the dog down the street; the beach; Daddy’s big truck; and the garden sitting fallow and awash in the moonlight. Back inside, we walk to her little girl room and I place her into the crib, telling her good night. Her mother fusses over blankets; I walk out after blowing a few more kisses.

Sleep well my little one; and tomorrow we’ll play.