Note: As you can tell, I write a lot about my kids. Not too long ago, while cleaning out the computer I stumbled on this essay. I had written it when my son was a toddler — today he's 12 — which proves my point in the last paragraph. — MSC.
It usually starts right before sundown-the time of evening when the Oklahoma sky changes from deep blue to golden orange, then red and, finally, purple.
I watch the tall, stately trees slowly fade from brown and green to black - spiky silhouettes waiting patiently for the earth to turn, again, on its belly.
It's bed-time.
And for my son, Ethan, it's a well-choreographed event which began at 7 this morning.
He's been busy. Up early. Preschool by eight. Friends. Field trips. Books. Maybe the park. And-for Ethan, this is a must-some time alone with his ol' buddy, Barney. Then back home. Maybe a bike ride. The park again. More books. Outside.
Then bed-time.
True, Ethan has better things to do than go to bed. Given the chance, he'd stay up until he dropped from exhaustion.
But he knows the cycle. He expects it.
The chase — while the tub fills. The bath, complete with Barney shampoo, Cookie Monster soap and enough plastic toys to build a late-model car. The rinse-daddy is only allowed to rinse his hair five times. Any more and he's "too wet."
Then, the soaking, naked 20-yard dash, before he will allow any clothing to be reattached to his body. Following that, the official, 15 jumps on the bed while holding hands and reciting, "One, Two, Buckle My Shoe."
Finally, the rocker and Jimmy Buffett.
Jimmy joined us for bedtime when Ethan was only a few months old. One evening, during and intense thunderstorm — when the wind screamed and the rain pounded the roof — Ethan had been given his 2 a.m. feeding.
But the noise from the rain, thunder and lightening frightened Ethan and kept him awake.
Until I put Jimmy Buffett in the CD player.
Somewhere between "He Went To Paris" and "Son of a Son of a Sailor," my tiny little boy relaxed, closed his deep blue eyes and drifted peacefully off to sleep.
I was grateful to Mr. Buffett that night. So, to show my gratitude, I've invited him back many times.
And each time Jimmy visits the world is a little more peaceful. The television is black and silent. A ringing telephone remains unanswered.
It's just us.
Ethan crawls in my lap and we start rocking.
Of course, Jimmy's there, too. Providing the soundtrack for the last few minutes of Ethan's day.
The songs are Jimmy's ballads-lyrical, smooth pieces which keep the rest of the world at a distance. Songs that tell of lost loves, adventure, or the joy of sailing.
They work their magic quickly.
Even before the sky is dark, and the last few notes of "A Pirate Looks at 40" have faded, Ethan is ready for bed.
The covers are tucked in around him, final good-night kisses exchanged. A his stuffed, gray cat nestles beside him.
Jimmy plays in the distance.
As Ethan drifts off to sleep and the last rays of sunlight fade to black, I sit back on the couch and listen. Knowing that some day this particular moment will exist only as a memory.
It usually starts right before sundown-the time of evening when the Oklahoma sky changes from deep blue to golden orange, then red and, finally, purple.
I watch the tall, stately trees slowly fade from brown and green to black - spiky silhouettes waiting patiently for the earth to turn, again, on its belly.
It's bed-time.
And for my son, Ethan, it's a well-choreographed event which began at 7 this morning.
He's been busy. Up early. Preschool by eight. Friends. Field trips. Books. Maybe the park. And-for Ethan, this is a must-some time alone with his ol' buddy, Barney. Then back home. Maybe a bike ride. The park again. More books. Outside.
Then bed-time.
True, Ethan has better things to do than go to bed. Given the chance, he'd stay up until he dropped from exhaustion.
But he knows the cycle. He expects it.
The chase — while the tub fills. The bath, complete with Barney shampoo, Cookie Monster soap and enough plastic toys to build a late-model car. The rinse-daddy is only allowed to rinse his hair five times. Any more and he's "too wet."
Then, the soaking, naked 20-yard dash, before he will allow any clothing to be reattached to his body. Following that, the official, 15 jumps on the bed while holding hands and reciting, "One, Two, Buckle My Shoe."
Finally, the rocker and Jimmy Buffett.
Jimmy joined us for bedtime when Ethan was only a few months old. One evening, during and intense thunderstorm — when the wind screamed and the rain pounded the roof — Ethan had been given his 2 a.m. feeding.
But the noise from the rain, thunder and lightening frightened Ethan and kept him awake.
Until I put Jimmy Buffett in the CD player.
Somewhere between "He Went To Paris" and "Son of a Son of a Sailor," my tiny little boy relaxed, closed his deep blue eyes and drifted peacefully off to sleep.
I was grateful to Mr. Buffett that night. So, to show my gratitude, I've invited him back many times.
And each time Jimmy visits the world is a little more peaceful. The television is black and silent. A ringing telephone remains unanswered.
It's just us.
Ethan crawls in my lap and we start rocking.
Of course, Jimmy's there, too. Providing the soundtrack for the last few minutes of Ethan's day.
The songs are Jimmy's ballads-lyrical, smooth pieces which keep the rest of the world at a distance. Songs that tell of lost loves, adventure, or the joy of sailing.
They work their magic quickly.
Even before the sky is dark, and the last few notes of "A Pirate Looks at 40" have faded, Ethan is ready for bed.
The covers are tucked in around him, final good-night kisses exchanged. A his stuffed, gray cat nestles beside him.
Jimmy plays in the distance.
As Ethan drifts off to sleep and the last rays of sunlight fade to black, I sit back on the couch and listen. Knowing that some day this particular moment will exist only as a memory.
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