The Songs We Sing

With four children in our house, we read stories all the time—stories after lunch, when it is time to calm down and get ready for a nap. Stories before dinner, while dinner was cooking in the oven. And, of course, stories at bath time. We had a book that was waterproof, full of silly little bath time stories. Reading was a constant activity in our home until bedtime.

Bedtime was different. There is something so special about holding your baby or toddler in your arms as they drift off to sleep. And when they grow, as children tend to do, laying in their bed with them cuddled up into your arm. So much love. So much care. So much tenderness and sweetness in these moments. When there is that physical connection, even if just for a moment, a story just won’t do for me, so I sang to them. That was my version of a bedtime story.

For my oldest son, now twenty-four, it was a classic song. I began singing this song to him when he was still in his mamma’s belly. The song lyrics were simple, and it wasn’t a content-heavy song. But it made him smile every time. When he was three, he came running into my room, scared something was chasing him. I scooped him up in my arm, and he put his head down on my shoulder. As we made our way back to his room, I had already begun singing our song. As soon as he heard the first line, he smiled as he closed his eyes. I wanted him to know that he was safe in his dad’s arms. I wanted him to know that no matter how scary things seem, I’m always there. And for the rest of his life, every time he hears that song, he will remember that it is our song. And hopefully, when the world seems cold and lonely, he can think back to those times and feel some comfort. I sang it to him again on his thirteenth birthday, just to remind him.

My two middle children, both boys, are now twenty-one and eighteen. The song I used to sing for them at bedtime was a song all about little boys: their toys, stories, and adventures. In the chorus of that song, the parent wishes them Godspeed and good dreams, where their adventures become a reality for them. While I sang this song, there was commotion and activity as they both got ready for bed. I would clear all of the toys off my youngest son’s bed, tuck him in tightly, and kiss him on the forehead goodnight. Then he would turn on his side to watch his brother and me. As I was signing about superheroes and pirate’s tales with my middle son, I would help him take off his cape. The cape he wore just about everywhere. I would hang his cape next to his bed, just in case, he got the superhero call in the night. Just as I was finishing the last line, “I Love You,” I would shut the light out as they were snuggling into their pillows.

Bedtimes became very different when my daughter, also my youngest child, was born. I was used to roughhousing, and sports, and farting noises, and transformers. My repertoire increased quickly. My daughter, my only little girl, has my heart. I would gently pick up this delicate little person and sway back and forth with her in my arms, signing. It always calmed her down. As she got older, the song took on more meaning as she understood the lyrics. Soon she was old enough to ask me to dance to our song. Every time it played on my playlist, she would grab my hands, step up on my feet, and we would dance to that song. Even now, as she enters her teenage years when that song comes on, we dance. At my wedding to my husband, she danced to that song with both of us. This song reminds her she will always be my little girl and that she has had my heart from the moment I first laid eyes on her.

There are no bedtimes or tuck-ins anymore. No songs to lull anyone to sleep, or comfort them or make them feel safe. I wish I knew the last time I would sing with them, that it was the last time. I would have cherished it more, sang an extra verse, and hugged a little bit tighter. I remember when they were teenagers, too cool for feelings and cuddles and singing, I would open their door a bit just to check on them all. As I watched them sleep for a bit, I would hum my songs for them, quietly to myself. Every so often, in their sleep, as I was humming in their doorways, I would see a smile break on their face.