don’t stop tucking them in

“Wait,” she says, grabs my arm and pulls me toward her.  “Let’s lie here and look for the lightning.”

It’s bedtime and the darkness has long enveloped the house and the rain is beating down again.

We watch in silence for a few minutes.  Then we talk about the movies she wants to see and why Hermione should get some new friends and about unibrows and how to avoid them.

Previously, at Otto and PIper’s tuck ins, the conversations were sillier and baby voices were used and giggles erupted and I broke the hard news to Otto that the next day was a bath day.

When I had a house full of infants and toddlers and preschoolers night time rituals were necessary.  It was essential to physically be present to enforce bedtime and create routine and ensure nighttime safety for all the little heads on all the little pillows.

Currently there’s not a preschooler or toddler among us and every child is more than capable of the brushing of the teeth and the washing of the face and the turning out of the lights.

I have a very wise friend.  A mother of five who no longer has a toddler, nor a preschooler either.  In fact, her baby is a grown man with a regular life in a different city, complete with a girlfriend and a job and all those things.

She told me this, once upon a time, and I have never forgotten her words.

“Don’t stop tucking them in.”  That’s what she said.  “Don’t stop going upstairs and sitting by their bed and talking about stuff in the dark with them.”

I hear her voice reminding me of this on nights when my stack of Stuff To Do sits precariously high on the dining room table, awaiting my grand shuffling entrance.

I hear her voice when my son wants to talk about the variations in fish types.  When my daughter wants to replay an entire conversation or dream that she had several weeks ago.

I’ve not forgotten her words as I welcome another teenager into the numbers line up next month.

As I grow painfully aware that my daughter is about to reach the legal age of Practicing Driver.

So I pull the blankets on their bed over me too and cuddle in and listen.  I laugh and tell them stories from when they were little and from when I was little and from when their grandma was little too.  I ask them questions about their thoughts and also about their shoes and their friends and their worries and what they want to eat for dinner.

I did this when they were tiny and our words were merely an exchange of me singing a song to their downy heads.  I did this when they were toddlers in love with Larry and Junior from Veggie Tales.  (“Lay” and “Juu” actually.)   I did this when they were six and smelled like sweat and boy and happy play.  I’m still doing this now when they lock the bathroom door and insist on privacy and offer me eight reasons why they should have their request honored.  I’ll do this when it’s heartbreaks and college acceptance letters we’re discussing.  When it’s confessions and secrets and trying too hard to grow up.

Tuck ins and late night conversations.  It’s an open window , a cracked open door, a welcome in and a staying in tune.

I’ll heed my friend’s advice – don’t ever stop tucking them in.

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