When I was a little girl, my mother would sometimes sing me to sleep.
Her voice was warm, with a soothing edge, and she’d gently rub my back while she sang. As I listened, I imagined a soft darkness flying overhead, tinged with mellow orange and yellow, peacefully cloaking the world. Then she’d kiss me goodnight, and she’d leave the room with the door slightly ajar to provide a sliver of light from the hallway.
I didn’t inherit my mom’s singing abilities, but my boys and I had our own bedtime rituals.
For my oldest, it was glow-in-the-dark stars on his bedroom ceiling and holding hands while we whispered stories to each other, some true, some imaginary.
For my second son, it was rocking chair snuggles with my off-key lullabies, sometimes songs that we knew, sometimes songs that we made up together.
And for my youngest, it was books, and books, and more books – the best ones being those that involved the two of us searching for something or counting something or being part of the narrative in some other way as we cuddled together against the pillows.
Treasured moments, each one. Simple acts of timeless love and peaceful joy.
Happy Mother’s Day.