Last night Whit picked a book for me to read to him before bed, as he does every night. Uncharacteristically, he brought me Goodnight Moon. “A good night book,” he said, plopping into my lap. He is tall and angular now, in a way that only Gracie used to be. He curled up against me and I read Goodnight Moon to him, saying the words by heart. He was quiet, unusually still, and when I was finished he whispered to me, “Can you read it again?”
Of course I did. Rocking in the yellow chair that held me as I nursed two babies. In the nursery that held Grace, exactly eight years ago. The nights are long, as they were then, the the light feels limited, though full of feeling, emotion and elegy, when it is here. I read Goodnight Moon again, voice cracking at parts, and I could tell Whit was exhausted because he lay limply against my chest, not looking up to wonder at my tearful voice.
I wondered if this was the last time I’d rock a child reading Goodnight Moon. I thought about how often we do something for the last time without knowing it; the importance of a moment, its heavy significance, is so often clear only in retrospect. I wonder if part of this is self-protection: if I knew every time something was a last, I don’t think I could bear it. As it is, the possibility of that, the unavoidable truth of loss, hangs around every moment of my life, Spanish moss twining around the branches of my consciousness, falling in elegant loops that sometimes occlude the sun. That is hard enough.
This morning the fields were covered in silver frost (the color of Spanish moss, in fact, which is what made me think of it). It was really quite spectacular, and take-your-breath-away cold too. Grace and Whit wanted to run across the field at school (see photo), marveling at their own footprints in the rime. Leaving their marks. I stood and watched them, wistful. As we do every morning, Whit and I walked Grace to the 2nd grade playground. We say goodbye to her always at the same point, at a remove far enough from her friends that Grace feels comfortable throwing herself into a real hug in my arms.
After watching her run towards her friends, her brand-new birthday backpack bright on her parka-ed back, Whit and I turned to walk back to his building. He reached up and held my hand, his nubby woolen mitten curling around my fingers.
“Whit?” I said to him, leaning down.
“What?”
“I like that you still like to hold my hand.”
“I like it too,” he said, squeezing my hand. “It makes me feel like my heart will never break.”
Oh, my sweet boy. If only.
I’m glad I don’t remember the last time I read Goodnight Moon. It’s one of the books I could not bear to part with when we did our last clean sweep. Indeed, if we knew every last, none of us could bear it. My younger – Sarah – is the same age as Grace – so it has been a while since holding hands kept us from broken hearts at my house. We are at the precipice of so many lasts here, moving into a new and different stage. I try to balance the letting go with anticipation for the new that is coming, but looking back in retrospect on my journey through the days ahead for my girls, sometimes (often, always?) I want time to simply stop. Oh that we could say “goodnight clock” and make it so.
Oh, wow. Whit really got me at the end. Wonderful writing and insight.
““I like it too,” he said, squeezing my hand. “It makes me feel like my heart will never break.”
Oh, my sweet boy. If only.”
Oh my. Very beautiful.
You know, if I didn’t have kids I would have no idea about Goodnight Moon. I’m so glad I do. We have two copies, a board book one and a paperback. I think I’m gonna have to read it to my 20 month old son tonight. He’s finally at the age where he listens to the story and doesn’t just turn the pages.
So beautiful. Truly.
December 13th of last year was the last time I nursed IEP. We had been slowly weaning for more than two months. It had been four days since I’d last nursed him and I needed to do it once more – physically and emotionally. I expected it to be achingly sad. I expected to cry. But when the moment came I was surprised at myself. We were both ready to let go. I was happy it had been such an enjoyable and intimate experience. But I knew it had run its course. Nevertheless, I still miss it sometimes.
Oh. May he always know that feeling…
I’m down on Kiawah island for a couple days, where it is misty and a mix of soft greys and greens and beiges. Lots of Spanish moss, and was just thinking last night about the way it hangs and holds and stays forever, seemingly. We kept our copy of Good Night Moon – the third one, I think. Maybe my oh so nearly grown and gone girl will let me read it to her … but not for the last time, I hope.
Ohh.
Such tenderness. Such impossible tenderness to this human endeavor we are all involved in.
Heartbreak indeed.
So so lovely. And artfully articulating the words that swirl in my head but can’t seem to come out. xo
If only we could keep their hearts from breaking… I agree.
Oh, sweet boy, he really said that? What a beautiful, tender moment.
And as always, you captured these moment and tied these pictures together so beautifully, Lindsey.
Lindsey, I love how you shine light on the things we do for the last time without realizing it. It’s a bittersweet thought, but makes me want to pay more attention to all the little things and seemingly routine interactions in my day.
It also makes me think about the things we do for the last time, fully realizing it. My husband and I having to leave his mother in the hospital, three states away, to come back to our jobs and home. Knowing the cancer was close to winning the fight. Holding tight in the last hug, wanting to linger, wishing it wasn’t this way. But in a way, I’m glad we knew the full weight of the moment so we could remember and cherish it.
Oh my, I think my heart did just break a little – but in a totally good way. This was so moving.
I love Goodnight Moon and have been lucky to read it to my friends’ and family’s children. This line breaks my heart: “if I knew every time something was a last, I don’t think I could bear it.” Thank you for opening my heart with your writing. xo
Beautiful. Wiping away a tear from my eye.
I don’t have time to say more, but this is stunning and stinging. Just beautiful.
So lovely, Lindsey.
Sometimes we think a moment will be the last time, and we are grateful and more appreciative when it is not.
Perhaps this same impetus is what compels me to wake my sons with a kiss… when I can “steal” one, without bothering him.
🙂
Lindsey, this is honest and beautiful !
This is so beautiful and you are so present!
Like others, Whit’s words just got me.
There is something magnificently awesome and terribly frightening when I think about how my kids view me as their protector and keeper of their tender hearts. Yet, I know that inevitably their hearts will break and I can’t stop that. Nor would I want to, but I can be there. Holding their hands.
Thank you for this, Lindsey.
You have captured the very rumblings in my heart with such beautiful insight. My husband is deployed to Iraq for 12 months and we have little boy that turned 2 in July and a little girl that is 11 months old. Everyday they learn and grow and laugh and every moment breaks my heart. And I pray that the time could stop until he comes home. Every time one of our babies does something that takes my breath away I want so bad for it not to be the last time so that their daddy can come home and live the moment also.
Oh. Tears.
Moments that open to encompass the everything, eternal moments you truly grasp and evoke and play like music for us.
Makes me yearn to pull the worn old tome from the shelf and run it by my sixteen-year-old just one more time so that last time, whenever it was, was not the last time truly… but I guess it was, and I guess it may be grandparenthood when I read this again to a child.
The moments pass but the magic never dies. Namaste
“I like it too,” he said, squeezing my hand. “It makes me feel like my heart will never break.”
Those are lines better than any lyric or poem ever written. Love it.
Goodnight Moon, you got me there, that’s our favorite bedtime story, well, actually anytime story to read, we bring it from backpack to park to road trip to van and back to bed with us, the pages glued & retaped over time.
PS: I love Margaret Wise Brown, she is an idol of mine, I aspire, I aspire. And then I read her and weep.
PPS: Hope you’ve been well, real life stuff has caught me up, haven’t blog visited as much as I’d like, hope November is finding you well, dear Lindsey.
I haven’t commented much lately, but couldn’t pass by this beautiful moment. I think about “last times” a lot, and often remind my son “This is the last time you’ll/we’ll…”. Passages are the key.
I am always awed by your writing. Every line is so beautiful. Like poetry.
The simplicity of the Goodnight Moon moment…the fear of it being the last time…never knowing if it is…I wonder often about that, since I always find myself rushing…rushing through bedtime books, bathtime rituals, school drop offs. What a beautiful and thought-provoking post.
OH. My. Goodness. What a sweet honey. What love and security and presence you have infused Whit’s life and heart with. Oh sweet honey — both of you. It makes me think of my own Aidan. Thank you. I hope I am such a mother. Lisa
Lindsey, this is just gorgeous, and Whit sounds amazing.
I don’t know how I could ever live if I always knew when things were at their end. You should read Goodnight Moon again.