The moon is up
It's getting late
Let's get ready
It's Pajama Time
His light is out, the room bathed in the soft glow of the nightlight. We're settled into the dream rocker, blankies arranged over our laps, halfway through the goodnight songs. He sits up and strains toward the edge of the chair, pointing at the floor and grunting. "Eh eh eh eh eh."
"What is it," I ask, afraid I already know the answer. "What do you want?"
He climbs off the chair and picks the heavy, oversized board book up off the floor. Pajama Time. Again.
He pulls himself up into my lap again and settles back down, opening the book and pointing at the moon. "Oon!"
I strain to see the words in the dark. He looks expectantly up at me, smiling and excited.
I sigh. I stand. I turn the light back on.
"The moon is up, it's getting late. Let's get ready to celebrate--it's pajama time!"
How can I say no to one more book?
I know it by heart at this point, it and Hippos Go Beserk and Barnyard Dance and That's Not My Teddy. We could read them in the dark.
Hippos Go Beserk goes to bed with him when we're done. The next morning, I find him sitting up, completely quiet, transfixed. I walk in and he turns to the middle page: "All throughout the hippo night the hippos play with great delight."
"Oon," he says, pointing.
No arguing with that.