Every night we have the same routine. Jonas gets ready for bed, heads upstairs and moments later Ian goes up to tuck him in. Sometimes, I hear them laughing, carrying on far too much far too close to lights out for my liking. Sometimes voices carry through the ceiling with their earnest conversation. Sometimes Ian comes back downstairs straight away. But every night, Ian kisses Jonas on the head, says "Good night, monkey, I love you," and then heads back downstairs to let me know that it's my turn.
I've been singing to Jonas every night for as long as we both can remember. I sang to him when he was still in my womb, and I sang to him through the round windows of his incubator. I soothed him to sleep through his first two special needs years by singing to him a rotation of songs that seemed to work like magic if I sang them in a particular (although changing) order that I don't remember anymore. And now, though my days of singing to him might be drawing to an end, I still go upstairs to my son's bedroom every single night, wrap him in my arms and sing to him the exact same song I've been singing to him since our rotation of songs got whittled down to just the one. I try to change it up sometimes, or even add a song, but Jonas won't have it. He gets a cuddle, maybe a giggle, and then Goodnight, Sweetheart, which comes with three kisses at the very end. Then comes lights out and closing the door, when we call "I love you" to one another. And then, officially, another day is conquered.