Wednesdays I work late. Sophie is usually in bed by the time I get home. But last night, when I walked in the door, she ran and burbled and leapt into my arms.
Ben had bathed her, put on her favorite purple-footed-pajamas (what she calls “purple shoes”), and then failed to convince her to go to bed. Instead of battling with a crying child, he wisely decided that they would just hang out calmly in the living room, watching “40-year-old virgin.” That’s not quite my choice of a calm movie for a 21-month-old, but I wasn’t there, they were happy, and Ben is amused by the idea that she might start quoting from it soon.
It was such an amazing way to come home. I got to hug Sophie, whom I usually don’t get to see on Wednesday evenings. And she looked so darn adorable in her purple-shoed pyjamas.
Then I felt like a competent mom, for a change: needed but not overwhelmed. Sophie was overflowing with energy, so I carried her around the house to turn off the lights, one by one, until the house was dark. Then we went to her room and said nighty-night to all her toys, especially the quilts that I made before she was born, quilts that are now decorating her walls. She likes to touch each of the different types of fabric in these quilts, bidding it nighty-night and bye-bye. We have got this routine down. Then we sat in the rocking chair and she went to sleep. Aaahhh.
These are the moments I want to remember: Sophie running to me, jumping with joy in her purple-shoed pyjamas, and then permitting me to guide her to the sleep she needs.