I’ve said goodnight to my children approximately 6,000 times. I used to put them down in their cribs after kissing the tops of their soft heads, inhaling deeply to catch that delicious, sweet baby scent.
One night, I smelled that scent for the very last time. I don’t remember when my youngest stopped smelling like a baby or when that last night was. But I do still inhale deeply when I hug my children, as if the memory of that scent will keep them with me just a little longer. The sniffing is not well-received by the now-teenagers, so I do it softly and when no one else is looking.
In their “big kid beds,” I used to settle next to them and read aloud — first just me, and later, taking turns. We read one or two storybooks a night until we graduated to chapter books that seemingly lasted for days.
One night, a night I don’t remember now, we read together for the final time. I wistfully glance at the neglected stories strewn about on their messy bookshelves; these books hold years of good nights within their pages.
During her winter break a few months ago, my college freshman purged her crowded bookshelf, relegating her childhood reads into storage bins where they will wait for the next generation to get lost in their pages.
Even after the stories were no longer told, I still snuggled and tucked every night. I climbed over the half-dozen pillows on my daughter’s queen bed and nestled in the cocooned sanctuary she created each evening. I jockeyed for position in my son’s twin bed, grateful that his lean frame left enough room for me to lie on my side next to him. We chatted for a few minutes, and I brushed the hair from their foreheads in the universal way of mothers.
Once high school began, homework demands and the adolescent body clock prohibited a reasonable bedtime. I often settle in my own room before my teenagers are in theirs. On those late evenings, my children climb into my bed for our goodnights. The tuck and snuggle is now simply holding hands as we sing the Shema together.
The prayer has always been the constant; no matter whose bed we are in, it is always sung. When I am not home, they sing it with their father, or sing it with one another. It completes their day and stills their minds as they prepare to sleep. I have sung the Shema to or with my children approximately 6,000 times.
The college freshman doesn’t sing the Shema to herself when she’s away at school, but when home she resumes the familiar routine of reciting the prayer with me. During her most recent trip home, she and her brother held my hand and the three of us sang together. Two altos and a baritone, our voices were quiet but clear, intertwined as they have been almost every night for years. I kissed them goodnight and watched them leave, padding down the hall to their rooms.
One day, they will live in their own homes. One night will be our last one to sing the Shema together. I don’t know when that night will be, but I will not let it pass unrecognized like the other “lasts.” I will inhale deeply, hug long and hard, and brush the hair from my grown-up babies’ faces.
We will not sing the Shema together forever, but I hope my children will sing it to themselves and to their own children. I hope they will know that their mother is singing it, too, to usher them into their dreams.
A Baltimore native, Dana Hemelt lives in Howard County with her husband and two teenagers. She blogs at kissmylist.com and tweets @kissmylist.
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