So I read louder and added two more books to our to-read stack, snuggling in with my very happy four-year-old.
Mostly because I am totally not the meanest mom ever, and because adding more titles to the books we were reading would secure at least one of the kids would go to bed happy.
And as an aside, Nick woke up this morning, apologizing to me.
Because see? I am not the meanest mom ever. That title is surely held by someone else.
The first time I discovered The Kissing Hand was when Nick was Madeline’s age, having a hard time adjusting to a new school. We read the story together, regularly, night after night after night.
Until he felt better. About school. And not being home with me during the day.
And that life was really not ending because he got to play. And color. And craft. And snack. And nap. And make new friends.