The Wonderful Bedtime of Unconditional Love

Mydaughter Pippa gets out of the bath, freshly cleaned. There’s something comforting about getting bathed before bed, washing away the mud and dirt from a day of play. I neatly brush her hair, it’s a struggle to get those knots out of her toddler-tangled mess, but we manage. She gets into crisp clean pajamas, tonight it’s the Peppa Pig ones, with the soft fleecy bottoms. They’re soft against her damp skin and aid to dry what the towel could not.

I grasp her hand as we walk, her palm dwarfed in mine, into her bedroom to start the bedtime ritual. Her bed, white painted wood, only stands about 6 inches off the floor. It’s the perfect size for a 4-year-old but small for an adult. It creaks as I sit down and I wonder if the weight of me will break this cheap wooden bed frame. She climbs into bed and pulls her quilt right up to her chin to get snuggly and warm. Her thumb goes into her mouth, the sign that she’s getting tired.

I turn to the bedstand to pick up the story for tonight. She likes to perform the sacred act of pulling out the bookmark. I hand her the book, she flicks through the pages back to front, aiming to land accurately at the page where the bookmark lies. She misses the first time, so starts back over, flicking the pages one by one until she eventually arrives at the destination. She picks out the bookmark, lays it delicately on the bedstand, and hands me the book, being careful not to lose the position.

‘The Wind in the Willows’

I remind her where we got to last night, Mole had just arrived back at his old home as he and Rat ventured back from the wild woods. We recall how sad Mole was when he thought Ratty wasn’t listening to him and I recap how Mole could sense his home with his supernatural nose. It’s like that feeling you get when you return from holiday to your home, there’s a familiar kind of smell that reminds you of comfort and belonging. ‘What does our home smell like?’ I ask her, she offers a sly titter through her thumb.

I start reading and find myself barely noticing that I’m in my daughter’s room. I’m immersed in the story, using accents here and there for different characters. A melancholy tone to depict Mole, a bold, cheeky kind of voice to depict Rat. I’m present in the moment and enjoying this time as much as my girl is. We’ve both escaped the bedroom and are birds flying above the riverbank, basking in its beauty and delighting in the tales of these animals. Her eyes are growing heavy, but she’s staring gazingly at me and I know she’s taking in every single word.

I arrive at the Carol of The Field Mice, where a collection of mice arrive at Mole’s door to sing carols at this time of year. I put on my best singing voice, and sing the words of the carol to a tune I make up on the spot;

…

And then they heard the angels tell
‘Who were the first to cry Nowell?
Animals all, as it befell,
In the stable where they did dwell!
Joy shall be theirs in the morning!’

She looks at me, her eyes staring into mine with delight. “That was lovely singing Daddy”, she says with a wondrous smile across her face. “Thank you Pippa,” I say, knowing I’m giving all of my love, care, and attention.

In this moment, we’ve forgotten about all the stresses of the day. We’ve forgotten about the tantrums over dinner because she wouldn’t eat her broccoli. We’ve forgotten about Daddy’s stress with the overrunning work meeting he had to attend. We’ve forgotten about the wet pants incident where Daddy shouted for not making it to the toilet in time. In this moment, I am with her, and she is with me. Blissful freedom from real life, and an enchanting way to end the day.

Before long I’m reading to myself. I look up from the story briefly and notice her eyes are firmly closed. She must have dozed off a while ago, I was so immersed in the story I didn’t notice her falling asleep. I reach the end of the paragraph, pick up the bookmark from the bedstand, place it into the book, close it softly and set it on the table. When I see my girl transported into the land of her dreams, I know my job is done.

I get down on my knees, reach over my sleeping daughter, give her a delicate kiss on the forehead, and whisper “goodnight sweetheart, I love you”. I realize this bedtime story ritual is a sacred act, treasured so dearly by both of us. I’m thankful for being graced with this one precious moment in our busy, crazy, stressful lives.

I hope nights end like this forever.

—

This post was previously published on medium.com.

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