A bedtime ritual

Every night when you finish reading Hudson's his requested books, when he has been brushed, potty-ied, and tucked, when you reach across the bed and turn out his light, he will say four words which tear me up, "Stay awhile longer, Mama?"

No matter how tired I am, no matter how desperately I long for a quiet place where he is NOT  TALKING, no matter how much work I have waiting for me on the other side of his bedroom door, all he has to say is that and I turn to putty.

Months (? years?) ago when this ritual began he started elongating my staying time by asking, "Tell me about the next day" and now that request is often before the lights have even been turned off. Little Man wants to know all about tomorrow. The whos, the wheres, and all the details of our upcoming adventures. I find it mind clearing as well, to articulate to him our plans, and so I go along with it willingly. Plus his contributions are best processed when we can actually discuss the feasibility of his ideas, and not as I have to dismiss them while he tears up as we walk out the door.  ("I fink [sic] that we should go to the zoo and ride the train in the snow.")

Tonight was not my night to put Hudson down. I hosted book club so I did not put anyone to bed. I did go and put on my pajamas when everyone left and check out Hudson's new fish tank in his bathroom. ("My new fish is Swimmy Swimmy Harris Swimmy Swimmy Swimmy. We will call him "Swimmy" for short.") That is when I heard him calling out my name.

As soon as I entered the room, I knew the request. So I laid there in the dark watching his face all illuminated by his Glowie and answered every detail about our upcoming day. He had things to tell me too. I now know the entire layout of the pet store he and Dada visited. I love how expressive his dark eyes were numerating every animal was there. We talked about the things he would like to do for NEXT Christmas especially the new train cars and features he would like to install. ("You really need to find us a train station on a sale, Mama.")  And how one day, when he has his own house, he wants to have a train track that goes through the ceiling. ("Do you think that you can send Dada over to my house to help me build it up?")

Best of all, I was invited to a sleep over right there on his teeny tiny race car bed. ("Don't you think THAT sounds like a good i-deaea?" he says.)  

Sigh. Why can't time just stop right now?