I’m sick to death of the vast majority of Edith’s already extensive library. We’ve read every one of them a million times, and by “we’ve read” I mean I have doggedly insisted on pushing through them while Edith claws at my face and repeatedly attempts to slam the book shut and throw it across the room.
But I never seem to tire of Goodnight Moon. I didn’t have a strong opinion of it prior to having my own child, but I now think it is the perfect baby book, the best one ever written. There’s something about the incantatory cadence and the rich and calming illustrations that makes repeated reading feel ritualistic and profound rather than tedious. I don’t know what it is exactly. And it visibly soothes Edith, who never stops squirming and is especially active at bedtime — she settles while we read it, and she thoughtfully taps the gradually dimming table lamp on each page.
At some point over the past few months, I got into a habit of reading it to Edith every single night at bedtime as her final bedtime book. I didn’t even realize this had become a nightly staple until the other night, I started to carry her to her bed after only one book (I was over it) and she looked up at me with a shocked expression and an outraged squawk. I carried her right back and remedied my mistake, and now we never skip it.