I brought it to my daughter’s bed, where my kids waited on a patchwork quilt stitched with frogs, cats and sad bears. One night as I braced for impact, still wearing a too-snug dress from work, I plucked the familiar orange spine from our jumble of library books and aspirational novels ( “Little House on the Prairie,” “Anne of Green Gables,” “Little Women”). The book has a pleasing, economical feel, like a mug with the perfect handle. There are no flaps to lift, sound effects to approximate or thought bubbles to explain. My husband quietly lifted our daughter out of my arms, his face arranged in the patient expression he wore while helping his grandmother into a minivan.Īround the time my daughter started preschool, I started to develop a grudging respect for “Goodnight Moon.” It takes two minutes to read, depending on the frequency of your audience’s interruptions to request an extension on bedtime. Then she exits the room, leaving him in the dark with nary a backward glance. Was she his mother? Grandmother? Babysitter? How could she just sit there? Shouldn’t she hug the little bunny, soothe him, assure him that she was there for him? He looks so sad, clutching his knees, marooned in a too-big bed. That lady, a mature-looking bunny, sits in a yellow rocking chair, knitting (garter-stitch, nothing fancy) while the little guy makes his rounds. By the time I arrived at “Goodnight noises everywhere,” I was mopping my face with the teddy bear blanket.
Plus, “Goodnight nobody?” It was a knife to the heart. It lacked the wild abandon of “Jamberry” and the wacky nonsense of “There’s a Wocket in My Pocket!” The lone red balloon made me feel like I was staring down a well, and the font reminded me of a standardized test. The vote was unanimous: “That one is the best.”Įxcept it wasn’t. I picked “Goodnight Moon” because I remembered how veteran parents had slapped their hands over their hearts when I unwrapped the slim hardcover at my baby shower. Reading was something I could do with aplomb, and I thought the experience would be soothing for all involved - including my husband, who was sweating over instructions for a bottle sterilizer that looked like R2-D2. The one-handed stroller collapse that would become my signature maneuver was a mirage shimmering beyond a desert of sleepless nights. My diapering experience was limited to Cabbage Patch Kids. I’d been a mother for long enough to know how little I knew: My bathing and feeding skills were weak. My firstborn daughter was only a few days old, swaddled in a blanket printed with baleful teddy bears, when we made our first foray into the iconic picture book by Margaret Wise Brown and Clement Hurd. Not in a dainty, tear-dabbing way I’m talking Niagara waterworks, heaving sobs and a red nose. The first 25 times I read “Goodnight Moon,” I cried.
0 kommentar(er)
