40

Dedication:

This is my 40^th blog.

My 120^th page.

This piece will take my online writing to over 31,000 words.

My first entry, Pantene Pro-Me, is about my oldest child (then 3 years old) and the struggle I had with putting him to bed.

This conflict with my son turned into an epiphany of self.

A revelation.

Zachary was my initial drive towards writing. When, at bedtime, he wrapped himself around me to breathe in my hair--his body entwined in mine—he ignited an ongoing and personal quest towards emotional slow down.

I write this 40^th blog in honor of my current 3 year old and her bedtime ritual.

I write in honor of my children.

I write in celebration of the gifts they have given me.

Zoe doesn’t walk. She bounces.

Zoe doesn’t dance. She gets down.

Zoe sees no reason to talk if she can yell.

No reason to hug if she can squeeze.

No reason to hum if she can sing.

Zoe does everything 100%.

She’s my all-the-way girl.

It strikes me as odd, then, that her bedtime is so calm. Don’t get me wrong, because she is my second child, I appreciate any bit of ease I am awarded. But her willingness to go to bed doesn’t jive with her fireball of a personality.

It starts with a bath.

She is naked before we get to the stairs. She’d be naked all the time if I allowed it. And if we are home, generally, I do.

I walk up the stairs behind her chubby white tush and threaten to eat her.

She screams.

She laughs.

I pounce.

I carry her wiggling body into the bathroom. As I run the water, she helps herself onto the toilet to pee. Every night it’s the same decibel heavy exclamation, “Mommy! I peeing!”

“That’s fabulous Zoe,” I say.

She squiggles off of the toilet and into the warm water.

She demands more bubbles.

More toys.

More bath crayons.

A bouncy ball.

A cookie!

I would never give her a cookie in the bath. That would defeat the purpose.

Ok. Maybe I gave her a cookie once.

She plays for a while and then I wash her hair with sweet smelling strawberry shampoo. She tilts her head back into my hands and closes her eyes. I pour warm water. She smiles a coy smile.

“All done?” she asks.

I wipe her face and help her into her butterfly towel.

“Flap my wings!” she insists.

I scoop her into a basket carry and flop her legs up-and-down-up-and-down in the mirror.

I place her on the floor of the bathroom; dry her off. She discards the towel and runs into my bedroom. She selects a toy from the basket I keep (just for her) next to my dresser. I attempt to calm her curls with spray conditioner. She sits naked and sings. I dry her hair.

I powder her. I lotion her face.

I help her into her pajamas.

My Zoe stands before me. Clean and beaming. I can not help but kiss her. She presses her nose against mine and utters my current favorite phrase, “Actually, mommy, my face is on your face.”

She kisses me back.

We head into her bedroom and she climbs into her bed.

I choose a book and join her under the covers.

Sometimes we read Goodnight Moon. Sometimes it’s Llama Llama.

When the book is finished, I smack the top of her head with it.

I do this every night.

She loves it.

As I return the selection to her bookshelf, Zoe snuggles down under her covers.

She tells me to “Sing over da’ rainbow and scratch my back.”

I lean down very close and tickle her back. Place my face against her warm cheek. Sing the song into her ear.

When I finish, she asks for a drink of water.

I supply it.

She asks to give me a kiss and a hug.

Every night.

Every. Night.

As I give her her bedtime hug she rubs my back. She takes her tiny dimpled hand and runs it back and forth between my shoulder blades. She does this in such a way that I feel I am being comforted by someone 20 times her age. She is deliberate. She is caring. She is conscious.

As I stand up, I kiss her tiny little lips.

“Good night mommy,” she says “you go to sleep now, too?”

I assure her that, yes, soon I will.

I close her door.

I do not know how long this will last. I do not know if it will stay easy and blissful.

I do, however, know this: I appreciate it every time it happens.

I appreciate her smell.

I appreciate her size.

I appreciate her curls and her skin and her laughter.

Zachary taught me to slow down and take stock.

Zoe taught me that if I tolerate the noise, eventually I will find the quiet.

Happy anniversary.

Thank you for coming along for the journey.

I hope you will join me as I continue to write.