Goodnight M

M is done with reading at bedtime. Or rather, M is done with being read to at bedtime.

We've had lots of iterations of bedtime reading over the last few years. When M got into chapter books, S and I would alternate reading to her from the same book. Once we got past the Little House series and into books we didn't know as well, that became a bit frustrating for us, so she would have two chapter books going, one with me and one with S. When S was home, we would switch off reading to each girl. When S was at work, I would read to E, then read to M, then put them to bed at the same time: the three of us would lie in M's bed for bedtime songs and questions (what was your favorite thing today? what did you learn today? what are you looking forward to tomorrow?); then I would take E to her bed.

Lately, though, E has been an adamant Mommy bedtime girl. And S is only home two evenings a week. And E and M are sharing a room. And M wants to read on her own. Or watch Emeril. And nine-year-old M can handle a later bedtime than four-year-old E whose eyes start to close around 8:30.

So we've evolved a new routine. Sometime between 8 and 8:30, I read to E while she eats her cereal snuggled up next to me on the couch (she did chapter books for a while, but now we're back with picture books). Then I put E to bed. Meanwhile, M is either reading or watching Emeril, and eating her cereal. After E falls asleep, if it's not too late, I hang out with M. Sometimes she wants me to read her a picture book, but more often she wants to keep reading her book or watching Emeril. I check my email or read the newspaper. Sometime around 9, I put her to bed.

This morning M announced that she now owned all the Anne books, since a friend gave her Anne of Ingleside the other day, and she's going to read the rest of them in order, starting with Anne of the Island (later she figured out that she has already read Anne of the Island and is thus ready to move on to Anne of Windy Poplars, but that is neither here nor there vis-à-vis the outcome of this narrative). Since we haven't had a bedtime book since we gave up on Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm a few months ago (only a few chapters from the end--I don't know what happened), I offered to read Anne of the Island to her. She gave me a look that I can only describe as a mixture of pity and annoyance. I asked if she'd rather read it herself. She would. Then I asked her if she was done with bedtime books. Yes, she said, she was, except sometimes she'd like me to read her a picture book, but she'd let me know when.

I feel like I should be choking back tears as I gently fold the memories of our cherished bedtime reading into my keepsake box. But I'm not.

It's done. We've moved on.

I fear that I am a failure at maternal sentiment.

But at least I can handle bedtime.