... Quadrophenia on the CD . . . it's been awhile ...
March 11, 1999
4:32 a.m.
Several months ago, I told Brigid that my favorite time of the day was giving her a bedtime story. I expected her to be pleased with this revelation, but instead, she took it with an odd sense of detachment. She was worried, you see? Knowing that this was so important to me put pressure on her, and I found out a short while later that she was now afraid that she was going to hurt my feelings one day when she no longer wanted a story at night. I took her aside then and told her that, yes, I would be sad when that time came. I told her I knew that it was coming, though. And I said that, just as I would be sad, I would be happy for her then because that would be another sign that she was growing up. She nodded then, and let it go. Two nights ago, Brigid came down stairs with her pajamas on, and I asked if she was ready for her story. She hesitated, an axious look on her face. "Yes," she said too hastily. "Brigid, is something the matter?" "Well ... no. Come on." I waited a second. "Do you want a night-night story?" Despite our talk all that time ago, I could see it in her face. She didn't want to tell me, but the truth was there for anyone to see. I reached my arms out and gathered her in. "Brigid," I whispered. "If you won't want a story, you don't have to have one. Are you afraid of hurting my feelings?" She pressed her lips together, and her eyes watered up. Finally, she silently nodded her head. I hugged her tightly then, feeling her heart beat under the flannel of her pajamas. "It's okay," I said. "I'm really proud of you." But inside, well, inside I felt something I just can't describe. It was pride. But it was pride that comes with knowing I had just lost something, too. At that moment, I felt so very close to Brigid I could hear her thoughts. She gave me a hug. "Would you like to play a game?" she said, smiling. "A game?" "Yeah, a game. Wanna build a card house?" "Sure," I said. And so we went upstairs and we got out some cards and we built card houses. We stacked edges together, and we growled when they fell down. We tried different configurations, and we joked with each other when one of us got too far ahead. Eventually, the time came for her to go to bed. "Will you tuck me in?" she asked, her eyes wide. She was starting a new tradition, we both knew. There would be more bedtime stories, certainly. In fact, we went back to them the very next evening. But eventually, they would dwindle to a precious few, and then to nothing. But now Brigid was offering me my new role. For the next few years, she was saying, I could be the tucker-iner. "Come on," I said, hearding her toward her bedroom. It's a dirty job. But I think I'll take it.  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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"For reasons I can't explain, I really like being a parent. It's just that there's a lot more to it than I expected." Dave Barry |
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