Like Night and Day

What would it be like if there was no night? No riding off into the sunset. No stars to wish on. No “Goodnight Moon.”

Monday evening got off to a late start. Normally, T Junior is stuffing handfuls of dinner into his mouth by 6:45 p.m., 7 at the latest. But sometimes plans get the hiccups. Like when you have tacos on the menu for dinner, but it turns out you only have three tortillas left…and no meat.

Mr. T to the rescue! He was on his way home from work, so he stopped at Safeway and picked up the missing ingredients. It would set us back in our routine a little. No worries, I rolled with the punches.

I stuck a confused T Junior in the shower early (he still won’t take baths). “Then bed?” he kept asking. Does he really think I’d send him to bed without dinner? “No,” I answered. “We’ll eat dinner first, then bed.”

“Books?” he asked.

“Yes, books. We won’t skip books. Shower, dinner, books, bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

Mr. T didn’t get home till after 7 and we weren’t actually eating until about 7:30. The gloomy day was getting darker, and by 7:45, it was officially “night.”

T Junior couldn’t hold still in his chair. He kept twisting his neck to see out the sliding glass doors behind him. Mr. T and I, well aware of our dwindling “kid-free” time, tried to keep him on track: “T Junior, eat your dinner,” “Turn around,” “Legs under the table,” “Are you all done?”

But he couldn’t help it. He’d look outside and gasp. “Oooooh! Iss daaarrrk!” “The cwouds are daaarrrk.” Or, he’d say, “Can’t see the twees because iss daaarrrk. Oooooh.” Or, “Iss daaarrrk. Iss nighttime.”

Me and Mr. T shook our heads. What is this kid’s obsession?

But, later, I realized that in T Junior’s world, there is no night. Sure, his room is dark while he sleeps all night, but it’s dark when he naps during the day, too. He never gets to see “nighttime.” He’s in bed by 7:30 and up anywhere from 7-8 in the morning. For him, everything happens during daylight hours.

Of course, he just doesn’t remember winter – you know, the season when night comes at 4 p.m. He does, for some reason, remember the stars.

When he was sick late last fall, I think it was, Mr. T would take him outside before bed to help clear his lungs. “Let’s go see the stars,” Mr. T would say, then he’d hold our son up while I wrapped him burrito-style in a navy quilt.

He asks to see the stars often now. I usually tell him there are too many clouds. Most of the time, that’s true. Over the summer, however, the stars don’t come out till nearly 10 o’clock. Too late for little boys. Instead, we sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” with soft voices and he goes to sleep before the sun sets.

That’s all changing as we begin fall today and head into the season when dark’s visit arrives a little earlier. I guess when that happens I’ll formally introduce him to the night. First, we’ll say “goodbye” to the sun as it dips below the rooftops. Then, he can get reacquainted with the stars and before we head up the stairs for bed, he can whisper “goodnight” to the actual moon.

Of course, it all depends on the clouds.