Sienna and Daddy sit in star-filled wonder
There are those instants as a parent that you don’t want to end, moments that fill you with such joy that you want to freeze time forever. Tonight I had one of those experiences.
Elaine usually puts Sienna to bed, but she’s been out of commission for the last few days due to a bad back. I’ll be honest and selfish here. I haven’t been happy about it because when my wife takes our daughter into her room for night-night, I feel a bit free. No more watching a near-two-year-old toddler every second making sure she’s not demolishing everything in sight or putting herself in harm’s way; no more inventing new, monotonous games like, “Legs Open! Legs Closed!” (that sounds a lot worse than it is); no more being a slave to a hungry, thirsty, moody, pooping, peeing, destructive, demanding, yet lovable little tyke. Sometimes when Elaine tells Sienna to give Daddy a kiss and closes her bedroom door, I take a deep breath and congratulate myself on not losing my cool at any point during the day. Because you have to. As a stay-at-home parent, sometimes you have to give yourself credit for not jumping out a window.
But then there are those special instances, ones that remind you of the exhilaration of parenting allowing all the day’s stress and your personal battles with depression and anxiety to melt away. The time when your daughter pats the floor and says in a cute, little voice, “Daddy down? Daddy down?” And so you get out of the rocking chair and spread out on the fuzzy carpet as your child adjusts your arms until she’s safely in the crook of your shoulder. Then together you gaze up at the ceiling, at the blue, battery-powered night sky. You count the stars and stare at the moon. Together you listen to the white noise machine, the soft ebb and flow of the surf, the magical singing of humpback whales, the same beautiful melody that weird alien ship demanded in Star Trek IV lest it destroy Earth.
“Those are whales,” you say. “They’re singing to each other.”
“Whale,” she repeats. “Whale whale whale whale!”
Then she returns to babbling in her own language before turning over, her nose right next to yours, a smile on her face.
“Stars. Mommy in morning.”
“That’s right, sweetie,” you say. “You’ll see mommy in the morning. Let’s count the stars again.”
She turns back over and snuggles back into the crook of your shoulder.
“One two three four five six seven eight nine TEN!” she says gaily.
And you smile down there on the floor under a fluorescent blue night sky.
Your daughter’s not yet two, but she’s growing up so fast. So fast.
Before you gather her in your arms, give her a big kiss goodnight and lay her gently in her crib making sure she feels secure by surrounding her with stuffed monkeys and bears, a smurf, a lion, you look at the projected stars and make a wish. You wish for the moment never to end.
Even though you know it must.