There’s still that moment. Ever brief. Ever fleeting. Ever present.
It’s night time.
The air, the sky, the world is darkening.
And I think bedtime for the kids.
It’s been a few years since I’ve had to put my kids to bed. It’s been a few years since I got to put my kids to bed. Since I sometimes rushed through the work day, grocery shopping, cooked the dinner, did the dishes, yelled for showers, get the homework done before any TV time. Unsolved Mysteries. Little House on The Prairie reruns. Friends. Roseanne. Or the VCR running “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” or Betty Boop. A snack with a show every night.
Reading of Fraggle Rock. Prayers said. Amazing Grace sung, poorly but lovingly.
Kids to bed.
Maybe a chance to sit down, fold some laundry while I watch a show on my own. Sneak a snack I hid from the kids. Get my stuff ready for work tomorrow.
Do it all over again. Endlessly.
It seemed.
But it did.
End.
And that moment is never the same.
That moment when bed time ends.
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