Bedtime Routine

I remember when my dad use to tuck me in, like a burrito. I didn’t want to move to mess up how comfortable he made me feel. Simple securities, like tight covers every night, kept me quiet about my fears. Abandoned was how I felt from the age of six on, cut loose out of the womb too soon. So the routine; fluff, tuck, pat on the head, maybe a story, it shut me up. I use to listen to him from my bedroom window after he put my sister and me to bed, pacing on the deck or cheering to the hockey game on the radio broadcasted through the garage. I stayed awake to hear him come inside; make himself dinner; a fried ham and egg sandwich or my leftover Sloppy Joe’s. I listened to him crack open a beer. I worried he was lonely, that he was tired of using the Snoopy blow-dryer on our wet heads every evening and quizzing us for our Friday spelling tests.

“Back to bed, Kirstin,” he would say, sternly, when I crept down the white stairs to check on him. A comment that went completely ignored. I remember the cold tile on my bare feet; I’d tiptoe closer to the living room to see what he was doing. Peeking over the corner of the wall, he sat on the black leather couch, eyes fixed on a baseball game, a plate of food on his lap. I would stand in the dark as long as I could, breathing quietly so that maybe he wouldn’t notice me. Without ever turning around, “I hear you, Kirstin. Bed.” Immediately, I’d scramble for an excuse, “I’m hungry,” or “Can I have a cup of water?” It was always met with a blank “The kitchen is closed; you have a cup of water in your room.” Defeated, I’d climb the stairs back to my room filled with pink blankets and a million Barbie’s and my very own pink doll house.

I remember how I would settle back into my Minnie Mouse bedspread, grief stricken that I had ruined the wrap of covers that my dad had created earlier in the evening. I looked at all my toys, covered with darkness and worry that they were sad. I wished I could fit them all into my bed so that they wouldn’t look so lonely. “Good night Daddy, good night Mommy,” I would whisper. I had every night that I could remember, and even though she was gone and even though I knew he couldn’t hear me, it made me feel better. Holding onto Honey, the Cabbage Patch doll my parents gave me on my second birthday, I would sleep. Later, only sometimes I would wake up to my dad climbing the stairs, finally heading to bed. First the door to my sister’s room would open and then to mine. He never said anything, just checked.