By Cassie Slattery

He let me down gently. It began with “Not tonight, Mom. I’m going to listen to the radio.” “Not tonight, Mom, I have to finish this book for school.” After about a week, I got the message. Bedtime reading was over.

I was lucky, I suppose. I got ten years of stories. Ten years of beautiful books, beginning with black and white books with psychedelic patterns, to the countless readings of picture books – I can still find the mouse on every page of Goodnight Moon and recite Goodnight Goodnight Construction Site verbatim – then, at about age six, we dove into chapter books. Whole worlds opened up to us, as we waded through classics I remembered loving, such as Charlotte’s Web and The Hobbit. We explored new books and chatted about the merits and faults of the best sellers at our local bookstore. Dozens of books through the years, hundreds of plot lines, thousands of characters.

The anticipation of the next chapter, of the struggles against ending on the cliffhangers, wove their way into our bedtime routine. When I had the patience, we would talk about what we read, and try to predict what happened next. On blissful lucky nights, he would fade off to sleep at the very last page of the chapter, having struggled to stay awake until I uttered the usual, “Let’s see what happens tomorrow!” He was vigilant in his need for a story every night, often pretending to be asleep for the babysitter, but calling out “Moooommmmm, will you read to me?” as I tiptoed down the hall at the end of a night out. Sometimes it was infuriating; why can’t he just go to sleep on his own?!

But it wasn’t just about the story. It was a time for us to be together, for him to snuggle up to me, long after he stopped holding my hand or needing a hug of reassurance on the playground. Even if it was a short, “Have a good day?” “Anything you want to talk about?” our bedtime routine gave us the chance to check in, to have a moment of consistence in the struggles of growing up.

Now, even as the countless nights of stories blend together, I can still vividly recall the nights I begged off, being too tired, too busy, too overwhelmed with the messiness of life to wade through the adventures of Mercy Watson or Percy Jackson or Katniss Everdeen. I can hear my voice, mercilessly curt in its frustration and exhaustion, claiming that I was just too tired, had too many emails to catch up on, and couldn’t we skip just one night? I remember the hurt in his eyes, and the sounds of his tossing and turning as he struggled to sleep without a story. It seemed justified to me then, and of course it was – out of over 3600 bedtimes, I was allowed to skip a couple, right? There was always the promise of the next night, of continuing the journey with us snuggled together, still my baby boy even as the months and years passed and I had less and less room on his bed.

And now it’s over. Sure, I can get a halfhearted hug, and every once in a while, a treasured kiss on the cheek. But my baby is older now and is moving beyond the routines of his early childhood. I’m not needed to cuddle every night, to check in about his day before we dive into the next chapter.

This is a good thing, I tell myself. A typical boy of fifteen surely isn’t read to each night by his mother. In my case, neither is a boy of eleven. But there are still more stories to tell, more characters to explore, more bad guys to thwart. But for me, those stories will remain unread. I will be left out of those journeys.  I am lucky that my boy loves to read and continues to explore magical worlds and dystopian futures on his own. But, this part of the story will go on without me.

**********

About the Author

Cassie Slattery is a mom of two children who are growing up way too fast. Originally from the Midwest, she is now found climbing the mountains of the West in an attempt to find inner serenity.