Photographers have a phrase they use for that magical set of moments that happen just after the day ends but before night begins. It's a sliver between dinner and dusk, when that perfect golden light shimmers down and makes everything glow.
It's the golden hour. It never feels like it lasts a full hour. Or maybe because it's so beautiful and perfect, it just flies by.
I put Ruby down in the golden hour these days. We're hitting those nice, long hours of daylight, and so about 6:30 we head upstairs, and the sun is streaming in her western-facing windows.
First, we change diapers and put on jammies. This has lately often involved some temper tantrums because Ruby has been waking at 5 a.m. (or earlier) and she is not getting enough sleep. She also is soooooo bored by the routine of life—diaper changing and jammie putting-onning that she can't possibly be expected to tolerate for more than thirty seconds because she is busy and has work to do. So what we call dipie-jammy-milkie-ni-ni also involves a bit of performance. First, Twinkle Twinkle was a hit: Ruby would fill in as a backup singer, much to my delight. It would go like this:
Me: Ruby! Ruby! Hey! Let's put our arms in the shirt sleeves, OK?
Ruby: ARRRAAHHGHGHG (thrashing, rolling, kicking)
Me: Hey! You know what? If you just do this, we can be done already. Here, put your arm in.
Ruby: WAHHHHHHH UH-UH! uh-UH! (arm-waving, head shaking)
Me: Ok, um, do you want to sing Twinkle, Twinkle?
Ruby: WAAAH--...
Me: Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you
Ruby: awwwwwwwwwh
(In unison now)
Me: Up above the world so high
Ruby: Up bop bop bop
(Ruby drops out)
Me: Like a diamond in the sky/ Twinkle twinkle little
Ruby: saaaaaaawwwwwh
Me: how I wonder what you
Ruby: awwwwwwh
on particularly participatory nights she will start over with the "up bop bop bop" and I will indulge her with another round.
Then Twinkle, Twinkle lost its distracting capabilities. We moved on to Wheels on the Bus (which I only know a few verses of and I'm quite sure I sing them in the wrong order) because she likes to participate with the swish, swish, swish of the wipers and the "move on back" of the driver, and especially the "shh shh shh" of the mommies on the bus—but not the wah, wah, wah of the babies —oh, the irony, right?
We have also started to incorporate Itsy Bitsy Spider to switch things up a bit.
Sometimes we read a book or two if Ruby can hold out and is interested. I always let her choose which ones she wants to read, and she is starting to be able to communicate that she knows which books have what stories on the inside. (If I choose a book she doesn't want to read, she will say 'uh-UH!' and wave her arms, acting completely affronted.) Two of her books feature some measure of "shhhh"-ing, so when she chooses those books from the shelf, she will approach me making the "shhh" noise and hand me the book. Sometimes we make it through three books. Sometimes we only make it three pages, and she will turn her face to me and want to nurse.
Then we put the books down and snuggle up, her one arm around me, her other arm resting on my chest, and she begins to nurse. The sun coming in the window by this point is golden-hour light. Her flaxen hair glimmers. Our skin glows. We look into each other's eyes and if I smile at her, barely imperceptible crinkles form at the corners of her eyes. If I stroke her hair, rub her earlobes, or run my fingers in circles on her back, her eyes half-close in bliss. I take deep breaths. So does she. Sometimes she will pull away, study my face, and smile up at me. Sometimes I get an un-asked for kiss, which is about the best thing ever and fills my heart to nearly bursting.
Eventually, she drifts off. I have only missed a couple of bedtimes since Ruby was born nearly 17 months ago. That's nearly 72 weeks. 503 bedtimes. There are many nights when she falls asleep within minutes, and I find myself still snuggled up to her a half hour later, watching her face relax, her lashes brushing her cheeks, her chest rise and fall, feeling her little fingers twitch as she slumbers. Sometimes I'm still sitting there long after it has grown dark.
I lay her down in her crib and tiptoe out.
I can remember lying in bed in the summer when I was a little kid. I had Care Bears pillowcases (still do!) and crisp, clean sheets dried in the summer sun, and my nightgowns were often my grandma's creations. My southern-facing windows carried the warmest, sweetest breezes, and would catch the scent of Mr. Marxer's apple blossoms next door, the lilac bush in the backyard. I can remember snuggling up with my mom, reading stories together. Sometimes it would be a set of poems. Maybe a short story or even a magazine article. Eventually we graduated into chapter books. But all of this reminded me of a poem that she taught me, and that I still love:
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, o blue-eyed banditi,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!!
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It's when things feel so beautiful and close and connected. It's a little wisp of time, passing too quickly, but filled with such love and tenderness. It's golden.
