Just Say Yes

So we decided tonight would be our first Family Movie Night, which means that Ben and Lily and I will watch a movie together every Saturday, a movie that is appealing to all three of us, which includes a surprising number of movies. Late this afternoon we all drove to the movie rental place, and Lily and I went in to choose. I gave her a brief synopsis of a number of 70s favorites, from The Black Stallion to Benji to Freaky Friday, which was her ultimate choice, I think because she suspected I was angling for Benji.

With a slight complicating factor, a small one that starts with an "A" and ends with an "nnika," who had zero interest in movie night and showed her displeasure, in fact, by chucking pieces of pineapple and trying to press cookie cutters into our faces, movie night was a tremendous success. Lily found Freaky Friday, which I saw at a matinee with my mother the year it came out in the theaters when I must have been a little bit older than Lily is, fascinating. Funny. She liked the car chase, which I noticed takes place on the same set as the climactic scene of Grease, and the water-skiing. As we watched, I thought of a hundred other movies for future Saturdays, from Herbie to Bedknobs and Broomsticks, to Black Beauty to Star Wars to the original Parent Trap and on and on and on.

When it was over, she sank into the couch between us and sighed a happy sigh. "I don't even mind that it's bedtime," she said, and I carried her up the stairs and watched as she brushed her teeth, readied herself. I was tired, too, and when I tucked her in, and she asked, as she sometimes does here, where she has her own room, "Will you lie with me, Mama?" I almost said no. Not a harsh no, of course, but a no, not tonight, Mama has things to do, which is true, is always true, so instead--surprising myself, almost, I said yes. And I did.

And for about fifteen minutes, we lay side by side, her little arm slung over me, whispering in the darkness ("It's all dark, even with my eyes open," she whispered.) about the movie, and about the snowfall, and about whatever came to Lily's mind. At one point, into a silence, she whispered, "sense of humor."

"What do you mean?" I whispered back, and she giggled.

"I just thought you'd like to hear it," she said, and I explained to her what it means, which she sort of knew anyway, and when I'd finished, there was another moment of silence before she said, "Thank you for advice, Mama," and finally fell asleep.

I lay there for a few more minutes, listening to her lightly snore, taking in the darkness, watching the vertical stripe of snow fall under the streetlight, and then realized that I had stayed with her tonight, partly on the advice of someone I admire, who has said, many times, about children, "Go to them when they need you. Go to them when they call. There's only a finite time it will happen. Don't let it slip by." So tonight, as the snow still falls, and two girls sleep peacefully upstairs, I echo Lily, in gratitude for those who help me know what best to do.

Thank you for advice.