As I tuck my daughter into bed each evening, she twirls a strand of hair and asks, “Can I share something with you?” This is her classic delay tactic, one that seems to be universally mastered by children. They might not yet know how to drive or identify flavors beyond “spicy” mayo, but they certainly know how to work their parents.
With a sigh, I nod and let her recount the trivialities of her day. I watch her expressions, trying to remember those early days when her cries were my only guide, and her gummy smiles reassured me that I wasn’t failing at this whole parenting thing. When she finally takes a breath, I seize the moment to remind her how much I love her, then with a firm “goodnight,” I make my way down the hallway toward some much-needed adult time.
On certain nights, when sentimentality washes over me, I quietly return to her room hours later, like a specter in jeans, to converse with her in the soft glow of moonlight. When she sleeps, her body is serene, untouched by the usual chaos of childhood—no flailing limbs, no loud questions, no spontaneous bursts of song.
In those moments, I can trace the delicate contours of her face, brush back the damp strands of hair that cling to her forehead, and lightly stroke the bridge of her nose, as if preparing to make wishes.
Her room is filled with the heavy, humid air of a warm night, and I can’t help but smile at the dim, lemony glow of her night-light. Outside, the world exhales after a long day, and in this stillness, I find my voice.
I share with her the highlights of my day—like how her exuberant, off-key singing in the backseat transforms our morning drives into joyful symphonies that float out the window and blend with the city’s sounds.
I tell her that every time I see my reflection in her features, I’m taken aback, as if I’ve just bitten the inside of my cheek. Sometimes, amid life’s chaotic rhythm, I forget that long ago, I held her for the first time, panicking at the overwhelming feeling of love that washed over me as she was placed on my chest.
I promise to be a better parent tomorrow. I vow to listen more closely, to be more patient, and to remember her limits, staving off my often unrealistic expectations.
Above all, I express my love for her, a love that is profound, sometimes overwhelming, and far beyond what words can convey.
Some nights, as I rise from her side, there’s a flicker of movement—legs kick, her eyelids flutter, and an arm stretches across her stuffed animals. For a brief moment, I wonder if she’s sensed my presence, felt the warmth of my whispered confessions envelop her like a protective mantle. Quietly, I close her door behind me, leaving her to dream, hoping she’ll have wonderful tales to share come morning.
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In summary, these nighttime moments with my daughter remind me of the profound love and responsibility I carry as a parent. They are a reflection of our bond, filled with hopes for the future and the promise of another day together.
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