a true story about loss & repair
Goodnight, Giraffe, All the Way Across Town
It's bedtime, the lights are low, and she suddenly remembers Giraffe is still at daycare across town.
the realization
She wasn't asking me to fix it. When I stopped shoving the backup at her and just put my hand on her chest and breathed, she finally slowed down. Being sad next to someone beats being handed something new.
Her giraffe was still at daycare. And she figured it out at bedtime, of all times, when the house was quiet and there was nothing left to do about it. Her whole face went still, then it crumpled. But the crying wasn't for her. She kept saying Giraffe couldn't sleep alone, that Giraffe would be scared in the dark building all by herself.
have you ever felt this way too?
So I did the thing every tired parent does. I went and got the softest backup we own, this perfect little bunny, and I held him out like he could stand in. Here, look, he's so soft. She cried harder. He just sat there on the blanket, ignored, and the more I pushed him toward her the worse it got.
So I stopped. I set the bunny down and I quit trying to fix any of it. I put my hand flat on that little chest, on the heart going a hundred miles an hour, and I just breathed slow until she started breathing slow too. No bunny. No plan. Just my hand and her chest and the two of us in the dark.
I couldn't drive across town and bring Giraffe home. I knew that. So instead we said goodnight to her from here. Out loud, into the quiet, all the way across town. Goodnight, Giraffe. Sleep okay. She whispered it after me, and then her eyes got heavy, and that was it.
what I found myself saying
"I know. Giraffe's all alone tonight and that feels really bad."
"Here, feel my hand. Let's just breathe till your heart slows down."
"We can't go get her, but we can say goodnight from here. Ready?"
