hide ‘neath your covers

One time when the evening called for a lullaby, every song in the world escaped me – except for  “On My Own” from Les Miserables. One of musical theater’s most brazenly mawkish numbers, and thus, one I know all the words to.

I tried to change it out after that, but the only thing that turned out to be more soothing was the one-two punch of “On My Own” followed  by “Thunder Road.” (Are you a Thunder Road or a Born to Run? And what do you think that says about a person? Hm.)

When even that isn’t enough, I start dipping into The Cure catalog,  starting with “A Letter to Elise.”

We are trying to streamline the bedtime protocol, which had become elaborate and ineffective. It’s going something like: Dinner, bath, book, book, cuddle, crib. Cry, cuddle, crib. Cry, cuddle, crib. Cry, cuddle, crib, crash.

David is handling the latter half of all that. I kind of miss singing my lame lullabies, to be honest.

(I don’t know if I am allowed to say, but David extemporaneously composes lullabies every night. Music and lyrics. I’m not even kidding. It’s remarkable).

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