I’ve been a mother for long enough to know that my kids know I’m there for them when we’re apart. And I want them to be out in the world, exploring, learning, imagining, figuring out what’s important to them. I’ve seen the alternative — the year of school in their bedrooms, the constant togetherness, the socially-distanced visits with the friends who are their oxygen — and I won’t romanticize it. After living with three cooped-up teenagers, “Goodnight nobody” sounds more like a lullaby than a dirge.
Maybe this is why we give “Goodnight Moon” to new parents — why we inscribe its cheerful yellow endpapers with encouraging notes, why I know all 131 words by heart, a decade after I stopped reading it at bedtime. It’s a blueprint for peace in a time of chaos, and it reminds us how independence can be another kind of oxygen, one that’s necessary for humans and bunnies of all ages. The cozy light, the fresh pajamas, the promise of rest and dreams, the chance to do it all again tomorrow? It was always within reach, and it didn’t last long. But it was enough.