“Mom, can you sing your song to me?”
What song? I asked myself as I tucked my oldest into bed. I don’t sing them songs. I usually just pray, kiss them goodnight and rub their backs.
“The sweet song.”
And then it hit me.
I only sing it when they’re sick or scared or can’t sleep.
It’s usually at 3am. They are usually semi-conscious, and I’m exhausted. And it’s the only thing left to do.
Soft, low tones. Me saying their name and “night night.”
Softly and slowly.
Over and over.
It’s not a thing. I didn’t even know they realized I did it.
It’s the musical extension of words that aren’t spoken.
The notes that remind them that they are cherished and protected, and that Mommy will never leave them.
It’s a sacred sound that only my heart knows the melody to. A communion that only exists between my sons and I. I could never teach it to a babysitter or even my husband. It’s sacred. It’s special. And besides, no one else can do it like me.
We’ve never talked about it. It’s not something they normally request, or even acknowledge.
But that night, as I hummed those familiar, melodic rhythms, my heart beamed.
That night, The Special Song was a thing.
That night, I was reminded that my kids do remember what I do.
The way I make them feel.
And it’s remembered.
And, in my world of folding laundry, changing diapers and wiping food off the floor, it turns out, there is something I’m doing that’s permanent.
A message I’m sending that will be written on my children’s hearts forever. Long after they forget the trips to the zoo and that special stop at the frozen yogurt place.
My kids know that I love them.
And if they ever need reminding, I’ll just sing The Special Song.