I usually put our three kids to bed one at a time, youngest to oldest. Actually, the ten-year-old reads on his own, often staying up later than me. First, I’ll read to the five-year-old in her room, then climb the stairs to the bedroom shared by her brothers for more books in the top bunk with the seven-year-old, wedged between him and the wall.
The other night I began the routine as usual. But the middle child came downstairs into his sister’s room and got into her bed. Sandwiched between them, I read the first couple of pages of a super-sappy library book that she had picked out earlier that day. The refrain was “I love you with all my heart.” After a few times, I changed “heart” to rhyme with a word that often makes younger kids giggle. They looked at each other like, is Dad for real? But soon they were shrieking the word in unison at my prompting:
“I love you with all my …”
“Farts!”
They were laughing so hard that they were gasping for air, and I had second thoughts about this editorial change. After all, story time was supposed to prepare them for sleep!
But after I finished the book, neither one protested as I turned off the light. They snuggled into me, one underneath each of my arms. Earlier that evening, as the kids and I had walked the dog at twilight, the setting sun had sparkled on the asphalt road, which for a moment I mistook for fireflies. As I watched my two youngest children fall asleep, there was no mistaking the beauty on their soft faces, even as darkness fell upon the room.
I carried my younger son upstairs and heaved him into the top bunk. Soon, I won’t be able to lift him, much less hike up the steps toting him in my arms. During that evening stroll, he had carried his little sister part of the way home! The time is coming when he’ll want to read on his own and stay up like his big brother.
After tucking this seven-year-old into bed, I squatted down to check on my eldest. He was engrossed in his book, the reading lamp shining upon the summer freckles on his face. He acknowledged my “Good night” with a wave of his hand. I asked if he would like a hug: “No thanks, Dad.” I respected his space.
I did add, “I love you with all my … farts!”
He put down his book, started at me a moment, then cracked a beautiful smile: “Dad, you’re so weird.”
As I went back downstairs to my own bed, I agreed that I was indeed so weird. Even more, I’m so lucky.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of “Little Big Moments,” a collection of mini-essays about parenting, and “Tigers, Mice & Strawberries: Poems.” Both titles are available most anywhere books are sold online. Taylor-Troutman lives in Chapel Hill where he serves as pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.
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