By Ruth Douillette
A pleasure is not full grown until it is remembered.
~C.S. Lewis
We should have been asleep, but we weren't. David because he's eighteen, and me, because I lose track of time when I'm at my computer.
A pleasure is not full grown until it is remembered.
~C.S. Lewis
We should have been asleep, but we weren't. David because he's eighteen, and me, because I lose track of time when I'm at my computer.
I'm usually in bed long before he is, reading or maybe curled with the cat. Sometimes David stops outside my door and says goodnight. Other times, he comes in, pats the cat, and gives me a kiss. If I'm really lucky, he stretches out beside me, and shares his day, making the scenes alive with his talent for imitation.
He's already in charge of his own time and activities -- up to a point. But he's still my baby, so when I heard him whisper, "'Night, Mom," on my way down the hall, I pushed open his door, and sat on the edge of the bed to give him a kiss.
"Remember when you used to fall asleep on the floor beside my bed?" he asked.
I do remember. It eased him through his nightmare stage. I'd lie on my back, so tired I'd often wake hours later to crawl into my own bed. If he woke in the middle of the night, he'd come and sleep on the floor beside me.
I was glad when that stage passed. I was glad when he'd go upstairs by himself to wash his face, brush his teeth, and put on his pajamas.
"'Night, Mom," he'd yell from bed. "Will you come up and tuck me in?"
I was glad when the bed-to-living-room conversations ended, too. Just when I settled with a cup of tea and a book, he'd yell down, "Mom?"
"What?"
"Who do you think would win in a fight? Tyrannosaurus Rex or Spider-Man?"
"Tyrannosaurus. Go to sleep."
"Mom?"
"What?"
"What was your favorite thing to do when you were little?"
"Read. Now go to sleep."
By the time my tea was finished, my patience was drained as well. To his "Mom?" I'd shout back, "WHAT!" It was a horrible sound, a shriek that escaped my throat with the force of a sneeze.
After a pause he'd say in an aggrieved tone, "I was just going to say, 'I love you.'"
"I love you, too, David. Now go to sleep."
Who knew that I would miss those days? Who knew they would seem so sweet in retrospect? Soon he'll be sleeping in a college dorm, the first tentative steps toward a life on his own. But I'll still whisper, "'Night, Dave," when I turn off my light each night.
He's already in charge of his own time and activities -- up to a point. But he's still my baby, so when I heard him whisper, "'Night, Mom," on my way down the hall, I pushed open his door, and sat on the edge of the bed to give him a kiss.
"Remember when you used to fall asleep on the floor beside my bed?" he asked.
I do remember. It eased him through his nightmare stage. I'd lie on my back, so tired I'd often wake hours later to crawl into my own bed. If he woke in the middle of the night, he'd come and sleep on the floor beside me.
I was glad when that stage passed. I was glad when he'd go upstairs by himself to wash his face, brush his teeth, and put on his pajamas.
"'Night, Mom," he'd yell from bed. "Will you come up and tuck me in?"
I was glad when the bed-to-living-room conversations ended, too. Just when I settled with a cup of tea and a book, he'd yell down, "Mom?"
"What?"
"Who do you think would win in a fight? Tyrannosaurus Rex or Spider-Man?"
"Tyrannosaurus. Go to sleep."
"Mom?"
"What?"
"What was your favorite thing to do when you were little?"
"Read. Now go to sleep."
By the time my tea was finished, my patience was drained as well. To his "Mom?" I'd shout back, "WHAT!" It was a horrible sound, a shriek that escaped my throat with the force of a sneeze.
After a pause he'd say in an aggrieved tone, "I was just going to say, 'I love you.'"
"I love you, too, David. Now go to sleep."
Who knew that I would miss those days? Who knew they would seem so sweet in retrospect? Soon he'll be sleeping in a college dorm, the first tentative steps toward a life on his own. But I'll still whisper, "'Night, Dave," when I turn off my light each night.
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