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Good Night Sweet Princess Our ritual goes something like this: After I’ve done the dishes and the kids have had their baths, after pajamas are on and a Cinderella toothbrush has done its job, when we’ve put Evan to bed and Sarah has gone back to the bathroom because she realizes she has to go again and yes, wash her hands, we lie down on Sarah’s pillow and cuddle close for her bedtime stories. When we get into bed, we try to leave the day behind, across the drawbridge away from our kingdom. We’ve left behind the hands on hips, the tantrums, the ineffective timeouts and my dwindling patience. I lie down with my princess, the enchantingly beautiful spitfire who amazes me each day. The child I want to feel good about herself without being arrogant. The child I want to adore her family, and make good choices, and play sports (but only if she wants to) and always be safe. The four and a half year old who is exhausted and just wants bedtime stories from her Mom. Once we are ready, Sarah offers up two books for my reading. I usually accept them and begin. But, I fight the urge each time to give commentary on the story. For example, in Rumplestilzkin, the miller’s daughter should NOT marry the king. He only proposes because he thinks she can spin gold. Otherwise, he was going to kill her. Does that sound like the basis of a healthy and happy marriage? About here is where Sarah will jump in and allay my fears. “Don’t worry, Mom,” Sarah says. “Everything is okay because the girl gets to live in a castle.” My other story-telling dilemma is that some of Sarah’s books just make me too sad. For example, I get too choked up when the man in I Love You Forever rocks his aging mother to sleep. But Sarah understands. She knows in advance what will make me emotional and sets it aside for another day. This, however, brings on a moment of parental insecurity. What message am I sending to my daughter about women’s strength or my mental stability if I’m not emotionally capable of handling her bedtime stories? Sarah’s enthusiasm or silence during our story time tells me how tired she is. Sometimes she talks non-stop or tries to point to how many words she can read. She’ll often begin laughing in anticipation of the page where a boy is running to school with no pants. Other nights, Sarah just rolls to her left and listens to my voice. When the stories end, if Sarah hasn’t already fallen asleep, she launches into her ‘Ask Everything’ mode. “What type of stories did Grandma Bonnie used to read to you when you were little? Are there still princesses today, and why aren’t any of them here? How did the dinosaurs die and the people come? What color was your toothbrush when you were four? And why do you get to stay up later than me?” Occasionally, I can even answer one of the questions. Eventually, I turn off the desk-lamp and put on Sarah’s music. I get back into bed and Sarah snuggles against my shoulder. It always amazes me how hot her skin is. I look down at her mane of blonde curls and wonder, does she really look like me, or is it my hair on Steve’s face with no beard? Yeah, it’s definitely my hair, but Sarah’s is softer with so much more life. I kiss her head and take in the strawberry smell of her hair. Quiet reigns, except for the even, warm breaths from Sarah – so relaxing and so far from the desperate wheezes of our midnight nebulizing extravaganzas. In her right hand, Sarah clutches Al, her once brightly-colored stuffed alligator. Her right index finger flicks Al’s threadbare nostril to a rhythmic beat. Her left thumb is in her mouth and I concentrate on hearing the sucking and the breathing get slower and slower. I try not to let thoughts of Sarah’s orthodontic destiny break how mesmerized I am. In the morning, I suppose, I’ll have plenty of time to obsess about my parenting or stress about my daughter’s future. In the meantime, I relax to the cadence of the sounds that are Sarah, the strawberry shampoo and the saliva smells that are Sarah, and the feel of her satiny curls against my cheek. Each night before the bedtime ritual begins, I ask Steve to come get me in a half hour so I can do some work. But part of me keeps hoping that he might forget, so my breath can match Sarah’s pattern, I can lie next to my princess, and drift into a dream where everything is okay because I get to live in a castle. Brandy Marshall is a mother of two and an emerging writer. Her greatest publishing success has come in the last year and a half; she’s recorded two memoir pieces for broadcast on WAMC, Northeast National Public Radio.
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