Turning slightly, I look down at my 2 ½ year old and swat her bottom playfully.
“Scoot up on the couch, my little Jasmine-Flower, and I’ll read our chapter now.”
Betsy scurries to the couch and clambers up, ready for the nightly installment of Little House on the Prairie. The tea kettle is whistling, and I pour the boiling water over my green tea and her chamomile. I take mine naked, nothing added. For Betsy, I add a bit of sugar and some milk. This tasty concoction is a favorite part of the bedtime ritual. Teacups in hand, I walk back into the living room, where I find Betsy looking lovingly at the poster of Stevie Nicks in her red dress.
“When I grow up, Mommy, I want to have a dress like that.” I laugh and say, “Honey, when I grow up, I want to look like that!”
We giggle together, two girls understanding one another completely. Sipping our tea, we settle into the story.
Setting aside the book, I walk to the stereo and change the CD to ocean sounds. Taking my baby up into my arms, I carry her to bed. I tuck her in, praying silently that tonight she won’t have one of those night-terrors she’s been having lately. They are so terrifying – I can’t help but wonder if she really sees something behind me that I cannot see, when she stands before me open eyed, screaming, staring beyond my shoulder. Hopefully not tonight, I think, and kiss her on the
forehead.
“Goodnight, my little babushka,” I say, “sweet dreams!” and she smiles, whispering, “Sweet dreams when you go to bed, Mommy.”
I stop a moment, my hand on the doorknob. Looking back at my grown daughter, I tell her good night one more time before closing the door. I think that it’s only a short while now before she’s no longer in this room. After all, she just graduated from college and is preparing for graduate school. I look around the room, at Betsy’s collection of pirate regalia, mystical candles and incense, the drawing of David Bowie in Labyrinth that she drew on the wall this past year. On the bottom shelf of her
bookcase, I see the entire collection of Little House books, next to the Anne Rice and J.R.R. Tolkien. Lying on the floor is the art pad she ordered so she could illustrate her own poetry. On a hangar on the
side of her bookcase is a gossamer “hippie” skirt. I smile, and glance back at this beautiful young woman who has clothing like Stevies’ and writes poetry so much better than mine. Getting ready to crawl into
bed for the night, Betsy is setting up her sleeping music. As I close the door, I hear Stevie Nicks’ voice….”….you are the poet in my heart…”
“Sweet dreams, Betsy,” I say. She is in bed now. “Sweet dreams when you go to bed, Mommy.”
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