Weed to me Mommy

This was the the nightly bedtime command of my first born, three year old, golden haired BamBam child.

Lumbering towards me with at least a 10 book stack balanced in his arms.

Nightly, he would drop the pile by my great grandmother's rocking chair in his room.

Clamour up onto my lap

Stick his thumb firmly in his mouth

Pull it out ever so briefly

Point to the pile and say

"Weed to me Mommy"

Then the thumb would return to its secure domain and his head would loll back into the crook of my shoulder and I would "weed"

For at least a half an hour, sometimes an hour.
Because sometimes it was necessary to read through the whole stack twice.

Every night without fail.

I can't remember the last story I read to him.
I feel like I should remember
When this sacred time ended.
But I can't.

Fast forward, present day.

He comes to me while I am on the computer doing mindless crap on Facebook and says

"Mom, I want to read to you. It's about Hercules and his twelve tasks. Can you come and lay down on my bed and listen?"

And I do.

Today?
I was not on parental cruise control, which definitely happens after dinner.

I stopped, dropped and listened.

Hearing his rushing and alternately halting voice, recount the tales of the stories I first heard in MY mythology class.

And like my three year old son, all those years ago, I started to drift on the words.

Lulled by the familiarity of the story,
Relaxed in the crook of my son's knee.

I listened
And remembered
Was thankful
For the gift that I was just given.