If you were to ask acquaintances to summarize my personality, the responses would likely emphasize my efficiency. I’d hope they’d also include descriptors like “clever” or “witty,” perhaps even “thoughtful” or “insightful,” but “sentimental” wouldn’t make the cut. Despite this, I find myself feeling emotionally reflective, particularly concerning my children.
It’s not the typical milestones that provoke these sentimental feelings—the loss of a first tooth or the poignant moment when my child forgets to embrace me at the school gate. Those events tug at my heartstrings, as expected. Instead, it’s the everyday moments, those seemingly inconsequential incidents that stir a pool of nostalgia within me, that catch me off guard.
Recently, while dusting the bookshelf in my children’s shared bedroom, I came to a realization. Over the past few years, I have gradually cleared out the baby books and the board books, donating or gifting away the many titles that no longer piqued their interest. What remains, however, is a cherished collection: the stories we have read countless times, the volumes now held together by tape, with cracked spines and missing staples. These are the books that have been deeply loved.
Standing there, I recognized that those white shelves encapsulate a decade of bedtime rituals. They serve as a narrative of my boys’ childhoods told through stories and words. As I dusted, I felt a sudden wave of nostalgia, realizing how long it had been since we last read many of those beloved tales.
Those shelves are filled with memories of warmth and closeness. I can recall nights with sleepy eyes fluttering shut just before I reached the conclusion of a story nestled between pages. Each book holds more than narratives; they encapsulate shared experiences woven through words, ink, and illustrations. How could I possibly decide which ones to keep and which to box up for someone else to enjoy?
“In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon.” This is where we would find “three little bears sitting on chairs.” Each night, we would count them together, our fingers tracing the pages. How many evenings did I sit with my little boy nestled in my lap, his soft head resting against my chin while I read those lines?
There were “two little kittens and a pair of mittens.” Those small bodies would wriggle and snuggle impossibly close. We explored adventures in books about cars and trains, journeying with the “Great Big Little Red Train” as it lulled my children into peaceful slumber.
“And a little toy house, and a young mouse.” Sometimes we read on the couch, other times in the big bed, wrapped in duvets, surrounded by pillows. We marveled at the tiny snail’s courage on the great, gray-blue humpback whale and exclaimed “no, no NO! That’s my Dad!” at the conclusion of “Monkey Puzzle.” We journeyed through the Earth with Ms. Frizzle and chased constellations with Thomas and Percy.
“And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush.” We laughed as Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Oack, Pack, and Quack waddled through Boston Common, while we got lost in Charlie Cook’s favorite book and made room on our brooms. We roared our terrible roars and gnashed our terrible teeth, all while nestled in blankets under the soft glow of bedside lamps.
“Goodnight clocks and goodnight socks.” Running my fingers along the spines of those well-loved books, I can trace the evolution of their interests. My older son gravitated towards titles about flags and tornadoes, while the younger preferred the Berenstain Bears and Magic Tree House. To my dismay, neither was captivated by Dr. Seuss. “Try them and you may!” I would suggest, but they were not drawn to those whimsical rhymes. Yet, we cherished the antics of the mischievous gray pigeon and laughed at Leonardo’s amusing escapade. “Aggle, Flaggle, Klabble!” became a quirky part of our family language.
“And goodnight to the old lady, whispering ‘hush.’” The feather duster swept past classic titles like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Harry Potter, which still await my younger son. He will likely choose to delve into these tales independently, much like his brother. There are also Percy Jackson stories and the Wimpy Kid series—important in their own right, yet lacking the same intimacy. The words will be absorbed in silence, with voices that are their own, not mine.
“Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” These cherished books evoke a longing for those squishy little bodies, soft hands, and silky hair. They remind me of milk breath and fresh, soapy skin. I yearn for those once-round toddler tummies, content and full, enveloped in the sweet essence of dreams.
Please allow me a moment to mourn the conclusion of those nights, the countless evenings we journeyed through days and years. Those nights when eyelids would slowly drift down, and I would whisper, like Father Rabbit, “I love you all the way to the moon. And back.”
I’ll share a secret: I still sometimes whisper that to their sleeping forms, lost in their tweenage dreams.
For further insights into home insemination, you can explore related topics on our blog. This article was originally published on Sep. 5, 2015.
Summary
This heartfelt reflection captures the nostalgia of bedtime stories shared between a parent and their children. Through the act of dusting a bookshelf, the author recalls the joy and intimacy of reading cherished books that shaped their boys’ early years. Each title represents a memory and a journey through childhood, evoking deep emotions tied to those fleeting moments. The author expresses a longing for the simplicity of those times while acknowledging the growing independence of their children.