When I settle my daughter into bed at night, she often twirls a strand of her hair and asks, “Can I share something with you?” It’s a classic delaying tactic that all children seem to master. While they may not yet drive, they possess an impressive ability to delay bedtime with their charming requests for conversation.
I exhale softly, nod, and listen as she recounts the mundane details of her day. I observe her expressions, trying to recall the time when her face could only produce desperate cries or gummy smiles that reassured me I wasn’t failing at this parenting journey. After she takes a breath, I jump in with an “I love you” and a firm “goodnight,” making my escape down the hall to engage in my preferred adult activities.
On some nights, when I feel particularly sentimental, I find myself slipping back into her room hours later, almost like a ghost in jeans, to speak to her in the soothing glow of moonlight. While she sleeps, it’s the only moment her body is serene, unencumbered by the flailing, jumping, and questioning that characterize her waking hours.
In this peaceful state, I can gently trace the contours of her face, move the damp strands of hair from her forehead, and lightly rub her nose as if it were a magic lamp about to grant me three wishes. Her room is filled with the warm, thick air of a humidifier, her nostrils seemingly clogged with the remnants of the day, and I find that nighttime tasks like dealing with nosebleeds are far from my comfort zone. The soft glow of her night-light lends a lemony hue to the space, and outside, the buildings sigh as they exhale after a long day.
It’s my moment to convey my thoughts to her. I share my favorite part of the day—those morning drives when she fills the backseat with her exuberant, off-key songs, belted out at volumes that could wake the neighbors. Once released from her throat, those notes sail out the cracked window, becoming part of the city’s unique soundtrack.
I tell her that I often see bits of myself in her face, startling me as if I’ve just nibbled on the inside of my cheek. Whether it’s due to sleep deprivation or the endless challenges of life, I sometimes forget that long ago, I reached down and touched the top of her head for the first time, panicking because it felt like the dolphins I swam with in Mexico, and then felt the world around me dim as she was placed on my chest.
I assure her that I will strive to be a better parent tomorrow. I will listen more closely, cultivate my patience, and remember her limits while tempering my often unrealistic expectations. Most importantly, I tell her how deeply I love her—an overwhelming love that transcends what my words can express.
On some nights, as I rise wearily from beside her, I notice her legs kick, her eyelids flutter, and her arm drape over her stuffed animals, fingers uncurling like petals. For just a moment, I wonder if she can hear me, if my confessions wrap around her like a comforting blanket. I close her door quietly and leave her to dream, hoping for more stories to share come morning.
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Summary
This piece explores the deep emotional connection between a parent and child during the quiet moments of sleep. It highlights the tender reflections a mother shares with her daughter at night, encompassing love, memories, and aspirations for better parenting.