It’s almost nap time, so we head over to the white rocking chair to read. I don’t need the squeek, squeek as we rock to remind me that this is where I have read to two other wiggly babies. The memories of three sets of little fingers eagerly turning the pages, the smell of the tops of their heads…they are treasured and locked up tight in this Mama’s heart.

I reach into the book bin and pull out one my favorites, Goodnight Moon. This is our second copy; the first one worn and torn, chewed and ripped — just the way it should be.

I open up this newer copy, and I am taken back by what I see. The black letters are loud against the white inside cover:

I now remember that this is the copy I purchased right after we found out I was pregnant with Brooklyn. My first Christmas gift to her.

As I lightly stroke the inscription, I realize the words were written before we knew about Brooklyn’s diagnosis. A small window of time that takes effort to recall…maybe because it hurts, maybe because I feel guilty going there. I’m not sure.

I search my heart to remember… the surprise of the news, the anticipation of telling the girls, my own naive expectations. It feels strange to go there, almost uncomfortable. I feel a loss, yet I feel no regret.

I marvel at the history behind the words — the irony of their permanence. Words intended to never to be erased, never changed, never forgotten. Their boldness telling a story within a story. Their placement making more sense now than when I first wrote them. At the beginning…before the real story begins. A story I couldn’t possibly have written, yet one He already knows. He has always known.

I feel the scrape of Brooklyn’s hot pink casts on my knee, her impatience growing as she grabs at my hand, desperately wanting to turn the pages. I kiss the top of her head, sniff its fragrance, and begin to read the story.

“In the great green room…”

(Linking up again to Just Write…)