Dear Alex,
Your papa and I have had numerous conversations about how he does not love encores at concerts. He thinks it's pretty silly that we have to go through the motions of the band going offstage, continuing to clap and cheer and yell "ONE MORE SONG," when the audience and the band both know that there will in fact be one more song, or maybe even two.
Why do both the audience and the band pretend that it's over, that if we don't keep cheering until our throats are hoarse, clapping until our hands are sore, that we there won't be another song?
I don't know when or if you'll read this, and if you do, I don't know if you'll remember, but you and I have a *very* specific bedtime routine. We, along with your papa and for the last few months, your little brother, say goodnight to the house and to everything in your room.
Goodnight blocks.
Goodnight bunnies.
Goodnight Hogwarts. (this is the map of Hogwarts and surrounding area that hangs over your dresser).
Goodnight stars.
Goodnight crib.
Goodnight tent and stuffed animal friends.
Goodnight mirror family! (we wave to our reflections)
Goodnight chair.
Goodnight dragons: ice dragon, blue dragon, taco dragon, and black dragon.
Goodnight to the brass elephant
Then we sing "You Are My Sunshine" and you turn off the overhead light.
Every single night.
Then, we read two books in the rocking chair. Sometimes they are good bedtime books (I Took the Moon For a Walk, The Goodnight Train, Dream Animals, Goodnight Moon), and sometimes they are not (Trucks Go, Santa Bruce (in April for some reason), The Cat in the Hat) but you always get to pick the two books.
Then I turn on the Classical MPR Lullaby Stream and we rock together in the chair for five minutes. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we just enjoy the silence. Lately you've been asking to see pictures of Mama and Papa, so I've been digging a few good ones out of the archives - our first date, our wedding, our honeymoon, and nights out with friends who you now know as honorary aunties and uncles.
And then, every night, I carry you to your crib, and then I lay down on the floor for five minutes, using a teddy bear as a pillow, curled up under your fleece Harry Potter blanket. We sometimes talk some more - about your new ukulele, about the phases of the moon, about trucks you saw that day, about how much we love our family. One of my personal favorites:
Alex: I love you THIS MUCH.
Me: Aw, thanks buddy. I love you THIS MUCH!!!
Alex: And I love papa THIS MUCH.
Me: I love papa THIS MUCH too!
Alex: And I love baby Owen THIS MUCH!!
Me: I love baby Owen THIS MUCH too!!
Alex: No, *I* love baby Owen.
Anyway, after three minutes or five minutes or however long I've been lying on the floor, I get up and say "OK, buddy, I have to go."
"No mama, don't go out the door. Two more minutes."
"OK," I say. "I can stay for two more minutes."
We both know there will always be two more minutes. But for some reason, it wouldn't be the same if I just added an extra two minutes. I always have to start to stand up, and you always have to ask the question. And then I lay back down, grateful for what feels like some extra time with you.
One more song. Two more minutes. They feel like a bonus, even when we know they were already promised. Even though I promised you all of my love, all of my minutes, from the moment you were born. They're already yours - you don't really have to ask. But it fills up my heart when you do.
Your papa and I have had numerous conversations about how he does not love encores at concerts. He thinks it's pretty silly that we have to go through the motions of the band going offstage, continuing to clap and cheer and yell "ONE MORE SONG," when the audience and the band both know that there will in fact be one more song, or maybe even two.
Why do both the audience and the band pretend that it's over, that if we don't keep cheering until our throats are hoarse, clapping until our hands are sore, that we there won't be another song?
I don't know when or if you'll read this, and if you do, I don't know if you'll remember, but you and I have a *very* specific bedtime routine. We, along with your papa and for the last few months, your little brother, say goodnight to the house and to everything in your room.
Goodnight blocks.
Goodnight bunnies.
Goodnight Hogwarts. (this is the map of Hogwarts and surrounding area that hangs over your dresser).
Goodnight stars.
Goodnight crib.
Goodnight tent and stuffed animal friends.
Goodnight mirror family! (we wave to our reflections)
Goodnight chair.
Goodnight dragons: ice dragon, blue dragon, taco dragon, and black dragon.
Goodnight to the brass elephant
Then we sing "You Are My Sunshine" and you turn off the overhead light.
Every single night.
Then, we read two books in the rocking chair. Sometimes they are good bedtime books (I Took the Moon For a Walk, The Goodnight Train, Dream Animals, Goodnight Moon), and sometimes they are not (Trucks Go, Santa Bruce (in April for some reason), The Cat in the Hat) but you always get to pick the two books.
Then I turn on the Classical MPR Lullaby Stream and we rock together in the chair for five minutes. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we just enjoy the silence. Lately you've been asking to see pictures of Mama and Papa, so I've been digging a few good ones out of the archives - our first date, our wedding, our honeymoon, and nights out with friends who you now know as honorary aunties and uncles.
And then, every night, I carry you to your crib, and then I lay down on the floor for five minutes, using a teddy bear as a pillow, curled up under your fleece Harry Potter blanket. We sometimes talk some more - about your new ukulele, about the phases of the moon, about trucks you saw that day, about how much we love our family. One of my personal favorites:
Alex: I love you THIS MUCH.
Me: Aw, thanks buddy. I love you THIS MUCH!!!
Alex: And I love papa THIS MUCH.
Me: I love papa THIS MUCH too!
Alex: And I love baby Owen THIS MUCH!!
Me: I love baby Owen THIS MUCH too!!
Alex: No, *I* love baby Owen.
Anyway, after three minutes or five minutes or however long I've been lying on the floor, I get up and say "OK, buddy, I have to go."
"No mama, don't go out the door. Two more minutes."
"OK," I say. "I can stay for two more minutes."
We both know there will always be two more minutes. But for some reason, it wouldn't be the same if I just added an extra two minutes. I always have to start to stand up, and you always have to ask the question. And then I lay back down, grateful for what feels like some extra time with you.
One more song. Two more minutes. They feel like a bonus, even when we know they were already promised. Even though I promised you all of my love, all of my minutes, from the moment you were born. They're already yours - you don't really have to ask. But it fills up my heart when you do.
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