“You’re going to say no, but I have an idea.”
He stood before me, so tall at almost seven years old. I looked at my phone: ah, how-to-avoid-going-to-bed thirty. Right on schedule. I looked into my son’s negotiating blue eyes and decided to listen before opening my mouth.
“You change into your pajamas, and Daddy changes into his, and I change into mine, so if you say no, I will be ready for bed. But I’m not going to tell you what we’re doing yet, ‘cause I don’t want you to say no yet.” My boy kept eye contact, presenting his plea.
Getting comfortable in my pjs sounded reasonable. After a long day in this new stay-at-home era of social distancing, and trying to clean the house and corral a boy through rewards and promises into “doing school” at the dining room table without interrupting Daddy in his office; we all needed some comfort.
Once we convinced Daddy to change, our son revealed what he had in mind.
“So, we’re going to the backyard and we’re going to take out some chairs, and pillows, and blankets, and we’re going to look at the sunset and the stars, and look at our beautiful big tree and our park, and our house.”
I did not want to say no to what sounded like a take-it-all-in and be thankful moment. No screens. No news. No work. No thoughts of what we couldn’t do or where we couldn’t go.
I arranged two dining room chairs on our back porch and returned with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Daddy came quietly, in pjs and coat, and Geddy brought out another blanket.
Daddy and I sat down in the chairs and Geddy said he wanted to sit on my lap first. I opened the hand-knitted blanket and wrapped him right in. His long legs reached so far, my lap could hardly hold his length. But he who dislikes kisses and says I tell him I love him far too often, he wanted to cuddle up with his mommy, so I offered no complaints.
We watched a neighbor family of four play pickleball on the tennis court in the park. The echoing ‘plock’ competed with my thumping heartbeat. Three quiet dogs stalked each other in the grass, running about then dropping to their bellies and crawling, somehow not breaking into sound. Pink clouds stretched their fingers, holding onto light. The hint of yellow-orange glow amongst the trees and the houses sheltered above the horizon.
Geddy spoke first, directing our attention. “Look at our big tree. Now look at our house.” We turned our heads. “Look at our garden beds. I can’t wait til spring.”
“Spring is here,” I murmured.
“No more winter?”
“Well, it could still snow, but basically no more winter.”
I looked at the bulging buds on the tree branches and the bright green of new grass shoots. Spring dared to venture out of hiding.
Our backyard started yawning toward evening as we kept looking around, snuggling in the blanket. Then my boy got up and said it was time to snuggle with Daddy. I felt the absence of his warmth and weight, like the time of his birth, when nesting him safe inside me had ended.
In the fenced yard, time waited with us, but darkness frowned with impatience.
Then the goodnights began.
“Good night, trees.”
“Good night, slides.”
“Good night, moon,” said Daddy.
“Hey, that’s a book!” Geddy chimed in.
I said, “Good night, slugs.”
“Slugs!” Roared Geddy.
And then we blinked. The light had faded; the blush gone from the sky. We carried the chairs and dragged the blankets back inside. Then our boy climbed his ladder to his loft bed. We tucked him in and prayed “Thanks,” and “Please.” And we whispered, “Good night, Geddy.” And we paused. And I thought, Look at what we have.
He stood before me, so tall at almost seven years old. I looked at my phone: ah, how-to-avoid-going-to-bed thirty. Right on schedule. I looked into my son’s negotiating blue eyes and decided to listen before opening my mouth.
“You change into your pajamas, and Daddy changes into his, and I change into mine, so if you say no, I will be ready for bed. But I’m not going to tell you what we’re doing yet, ‘cause I don’t want you to say no yet.” My boy kept eye contact, presenting his plea.
Getting comfortable in my pjs sounded reasonable. After a long day in this new stay-at-home era of social distancing, and trying to clean the house and corral a boy through rewards and promises into “doing school” at the dining room table without interrupting Daddy in his office; we all needed some comfort.
Once we convinced Daddy to change, our son revealed what he had in mind.
“So, we’re going to the backyard and we’re going to take out some chairs, and pillows, and blankets, and we’re going to look at the sunset and the stars, and look at our beautiful big tree and our park, and our house.”
I did not want to say no to what sounded like a take-it-all-in and be thankful moment. No screens. No news. No work. No thoughts of what we couldn’t do or where we couldn’t go.
I arranged two dining room chairs on our back porch and returned with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Daddy came quietly, in pjs and coat, and Geddy brought out another blanket.
Daddy and I sat down in the chairs and Geddy said he wanted to sit on my lap first. I opened the hand-knitted blanket and wrapped him right in. His long legs reached so far, my lap could hardly hold his length. But he who dislikes kisses and says I tell him I love him far too often, he wanted to cuddle up with his mommy, so I offered no complaints.
We watched a neighbor family of four play pickleball on the tennis court in the park. The echoing ‘plock’ competed with my thumping heartbeat. Three quiet dogs stalked each other in the grass, running about then dropping to their bellies and crawling, somehow not breaking into sound. Pink clouds stretched their fingers, holding onto light. The hint of yellow-orange glow amongst the trees and the houses sheltered above the horizon.
Geddy spoke first, directing our attention. “Look at our big tree. Now look at our house.” We turned our heads. “Look at our garden beds. I can’t wait til spring.”
“Spring is here,” I murmured.
“No more winter?”
“Well, it could still snow, but basically no more winter.”
I looked at the bulging buds on the tree branches and the bright green of new grass shoots. Spring dared to venture out of hiding.
Our backyard started yawning toward evening as we kept looking around, snuggling in the blanket. Then my boy got up and said it was time to snuggle with Daddy. I felt the absence of his warmth and weight, like the time of his birth, when nesting him safe inside me had ended.
In the fenced yard, time waited with us, but darkness frowned with impatience.
Then the goodnights began.
“Good night, trees.”
“Good night, slides.”
“Good night, moon,” said Daddy.
“Hey, that’s a book!” Geddy chimed in.
I said, “Good night, slugs.”
“Slugs!” Roared Geddy.
And then we blinked. The light had faded; the blush gone from the sky. We carried the chairs and dragged the blankets back inside. Then our boy climbed his ladder to his loft bed. We tucked him in and prayed “Thanks,” and “Please.” And we whispered, “Good night, Geddy.” And we paused. And I thought, Look at what we have.
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| Photo by Sebastian Voortman from Pexels |
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