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Whispers of songs

Klimt He was having trouble settling down as he always does every other Sunday night, long after he's normally sprawled out and deeply asleep. It's probably a mixture of settling back into his bed at our house and being tired from his time away. We're both used to that dance on those Sundays, with me singing extra songs, tucking him in after multiple trips to the bathroom, many more promises that he's safe sleeping alone in his room.

He fidgeted through eleven lullabies and then on number twelve, I finally felt his body calm and the tension in the whole room ease. Just when I thought he was there, asleep enough for me to slip out of the room and let him be, he turned his head to me. His eyelids were heavy and his voice sounded drowsy, but his whispers filled the bedroom.

"Mommy...." he said, first patting the arm I had wrapped around him, then leaning up to kiss it, " just"

He kissed my arm three more times, curled back up and gave in to the sleep at last.

I smiled. Yes, it was sweet. No, it is not true.

A million years ago, I sang soprano with the other high schoolers in a vocal group at church. Long before that, I was even in Chicago Childrens Choir. My voice these days is nowhere near that. I try to stay on key and sometimes I even work to sing those lullabies with some polish and shine. But in the dark and late hours with a sleep-resistant child, there's no quality to my instrument left.

So it made me laugh that this was his final message to me after all that, before sleep. I took that compliment, though, and I held it close. I want him to think that. I want him to hear that. Maybe it's exactly enough that what he's picking up is the sentiment, the intention, the hope that he will just rest over the proper tone and breath control. Regardless of what it is he hears, I'll take those whispers. And then I will take the silence and stillness and sleep.

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Reader Comments (1)

These are exactly the moments that keep us going! How sweet.
July 15, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterMia

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