If you were to gather insights from those who know me well, you would likely find an abundance of terms synonymous with “effective.” I like to believe that there would be a smattering of descriptors like “witty” or “insightful,” perhaps even “thoughtful,” but “sentimental” would almost certainly not make the cut. Yet, even I succumb to moments of nostalgia, particularly concerning my children.
It’s not often the expected emotional triggers—a missing front tooth or the first time my child forgets to embrace me at the school gate—that draw out my emotional side. Those instances tug at my heartstrings, as anticipated. Instead, it is the insignificant moments that unexpectedly transport me to a well of nostalgia.
This realization hit me recently while I was cleaning the bookshelf in the shared bedroom of my sons. Over the weeks, I have gradually eliminated baby items and board books. After nearly a year (or five), I have donated or gifted countless volumes that my children showed little interest in. What remains is our essential collection: those beloved books we’ve read repeatedly, now patched with tape, their spines cracked, and some missing staples. These are the stories we cherished deeply.
Standing there, it dawned on me that those white shelves encapsulate a decade of bedtime rituals. They serve as a treasure map of my sons’ formative years, filled with stories and the words that shaped our nights. As I dusted the books, I felt a profound sense of loss, realizing it had been ages since we had read many of them together.
That shelf is brimming with memories of cuddles and quiet moments. It holds nights where drowsy eyes would flutter shut just before I reached the end of a story. More than mere books, it embodies shared experiences, woven together through pages, words, ink, and illustrations. How does one decide which stories to keep and which to box up for others to enjoy?
“In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon.” In that room, “there were three little bears sitting on chairs.” Each evening, we would count them together, 1-2-3, a finger tracing the images. How many nights did I cradle a young child in my lap, their soft head nestled against me, as I read those lines?
There were “two little kittens and a pair of mittens.” Those tiny bodies would squirm and wiggle, seeking closeness. We journeyed through tales of cars, trucks, and all things that go, with brave engines that whisked my boys into sweet slumber.
“And a little toy house, and a young mouse.” We sometimes read on the couch, other times snuggled in bed, wrapped in blankets and pillows. We delighted in the bravery of a tiny snail on the back of a great big whale and gasped in unison during “Monkey Puzzle.” Countless adventures with Ms. Frizzle took us deep into the Earth, and we chased stars alongside Thomas and Percy.
“And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush.” We laughed as Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Oack, Pack, and Quack waddled through Boston Common, waved on by Officer Mike. We lost ourselves in Charlie Cook’s favorite book and made room on our brooms for all. We roared and rolled, tucked under blankets, illuminated by the dim glow of bedside lamps.
“Goodnight clocks and goodnight socks.” As my fingers brush over these well-loved spines, I can trace the evolution of my sons’ tastes. The older one gravitated toward books about flags and tornadoes, while the younger cherished the Berenstain Bears and Magic Tree House series. To my dismay, neither of them took to Dr. Seuss. “Try them and you may!” I would insist, but those rhymes didn’t resonate with them. Yet, we adored the antics of the cheeky pigeon and laughed when Leonardo startled Sam with a tuna salad. “Aggle, Flaggle, Klabble!” became part of our family language.
“And goodnight to the old lady, whispering ‘hush.’” The feather duster glides over titles like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Harry Potter, awaiting my younger son, who will likely explore them solo, just as his brother did. Then there are the Percy Jackson tales and Wimpy Kid series. They certainly hold significance, yet they lack the same intimacy. The words will be read silently, and the voices he hears will be solely his own.
“Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” These books stir a longing for those tender moments, for the warm, chunky bodies, soft hands, and silky hair of my little ones. They evoke a yearning for those toddler tummies, round and full, and the sweet essence of baby dreams.
You’ll pardon me for a moment as I reflect on the end of those cherished nights—those countless evenings spent drifting between days and years. Nights where eyelids would slowly, slowly, slowly shut, before I whispered, like Father Rabbit, “I love you all the way to the moon. And back.”
Here’s a secret: I still whisper that to their sleeping forms, lost in their loose tooth, tweenage dreams.
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In summary, reflecting on the treasured books from my children’s early years, I find a mix of joy and nostalgia. These stories represent not just literature, but the shared moments and memories that have shaped our lives as a family.
Keyphrase: bedtime stories and parenting
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