When it’s my husband’s turn to do the bedtime routine, I often stay in the kitchen and do dishes or fold laundry, and I get to listen to the music coming from the monitor. He’ll start reading her a book, and she’ll interrupt him. “Babby turn!” So (I see it in my mind’s eye) he hands her the book, smiling, and she starts reading it to him. Then, at some point – maybe the second or third time through – she’ll say, “Daddy read!” And my husband, still smiling, will take the book and start reading. He’ll get about halfway through before the whole thing starts again, or she wants to change books. Maybe we’re encouraging her to be bossy or too strong-willed, but when it’s my night to do bedtime with her, I find myself interested in just what she’ll have to say when she reads the book. I can’t understand a lot of it, but there’s some analytical part of my mind that enjoys trying to figure it out and there’s the maternal part of my heart that just loves the sound of her voice.

Standing in the kitchen, folding her little jeans and matching socks while this symphony’s going on upstairs, I often find myself saying prayers of thanksgiving. How can I not thank God for this tremendous blessing? How can I ignore the beauty in the music I’m listening to?