There are nights where baby's bedtime is salvation. A bondage relieved, responsibility tossed into the crib with a bottle of rice milk. There are nights when eight o'clock (on the dot) could not come sooner.

But, there are nights when bedtime is a sweetly melancholic. Did the day have to end so fast? Wasn't just an hour ago when I opened the nursery door with a day full of tasks and business?

First, read books.

Then breakfast.

Pick up all the trucks and cars on the playroom floor.

In a moment of excitement, break the cowboy with the shooting rifle and swivel hips.

Help Daddy fix the cowboy with the shooting rifle and swivel hips.

Read the truck book.

Read it again.

And again.

Until it is time to switch the laundry loads.

(And so it goes . . .)

These are nights when I put the baby to bed with a lump in my throat. Slightly sad about our twelve hour separation through sleep. Him, off to a place we cannot go together.

And so, a prayer to thank Heavenly Father for a good day. A day including a frightening moment on Santa's lap, two cups of raisins and a brief trudge in the new snowfall. A mention to please bless my sleeping baby--until tomorrow's promise of more snow and always, more trucks.

Tonight was one of those nights.

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