When I tuck my daughter into bed each night, she twirls a strand of hair and asks, “Can I share something with you?” This is a classic stalling tactic that every child seems to master. Despite their inability to drive or their unique taste buds that deem mayonnaise as “spicy,” they can effortlessly manipulate their parents’ attention.
I often sigh, nod, and listen as she recounts her day with tales that seem trivial. I observe her expressions, reflecting on the time when her face was only capable of producing cries or gummy smiles that filled me with hope, reassuring me that I was not failing at parenting. When she finally pauses to catch her breath, I seize the moment to remind her of my love before saying a firm “goodnight” and retreating down the hallway to enjoy some adult time.
On certain nights, when nostalgia takes over, I sneak back into her room hours later, like a ghost in denim, and speak softly to her in the moonlit glow. While she sleeps, it’s the only moment her body is peaceful and still, free from the flailing, jumping, and endless questions that fill her waking hours.
In these quiet moments, I gently trace the contours of her face, push aside the sweaty strands of hair that have settled like vines on her forehead, and softly rub her nose as if I could grant three wishes. The air in her room is thick and warm, full of humidity, as if her nostrils were lined with paper. Her night-light casts a gentle lemon hue, and the buildings outside exhale softly, having absorbed the day’s activities.
It’s my time to impart some thoughts.
I share with her my favorite moment from the day. Each morning, as we navigate familiar streets, her joyful, off-key songs fill the backseat, released into the world through the cracked window. Those melodies become part of the urban symphony.
I express my surprise when I see my reflection in her features; it’s always a jolt, reminiscent of the sensation when I mistakenly bite the inside of my cheek. Sometimes, amidst the exhaustion and life’s relentless challenges, I forget that ages ago I reached down, nervously touched the top of her head, and felt the room darken as she was placed on my chest.
I promise her that tomorrow I will strive to do better. I will listen more closely, practice patience, and be mindful of her boundaries, tempering my often lofty expectations.
I tell her that I love her deeply—oh, how I love her in ways that are overwhelming, beyond the capacity of my heart and whispered words to express.
Occasionally, as I rise from the floor beside her, I notice her stir. Legs kick, eyelids flutter, and an arm is tossed over her stuffed animals, fingers unfurling like blossoms. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if she sensed my presence, if my heartfelt whispers enveloped her like a protective shroud. I quietly close the door behind me, leaving her to dream of the wonderful stories she’ll share with me come morning.
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In summary, the quiet moments I share with my daughter while she sleeps allow me to reflect on my love and aspirations for her. These moments serve as a reminder of the bond we share and the hope I have for our future.