November 14: Blowing Out the Light, Go To Your Room, Correcting Papers

His story being ended with his pipe's last dying puff, Queequeg embraced me, pressed his forehead against mine, and blowing out the light, we rolled over from each other, this way and that, and very soon were sleeping.

I want to tell you a bedtime story tonight.  Well, it's a story that happened around bedtime.

I'm a very stubborn person sometimes.  (I know.  It's hard to believe.)  For a teacher and husband, that's not the greatest of character traits.  For a father, it can cause real trauma in a child's life.

One night, when my daughter was around seven years old, she told me that she wasn't tired and didn't want to go to bed.  It was around 8:30 p.m., and I had a stack of papers to grade.  I wasn't in the mood for a three-hour bedtime struggle.

"Get up now," I told her, "and go to your room."

She stared at me with her wide brown eyes and didn't move.

"I'm not kidding," I said.  "Get up NOW."

She still didn't move.  Just sat staring at me.

I lost it.  Threw down my book, stormed over to her, snatched her up.  I stomped into her room and threw her down on her bed.

"Go to sleep," I yelled.  "NOW."

She sat there, her chest heaving with sobs. 

"Go to sleep," I repeated.

She nodded, barely able to catch her breath.  Then, she said, "I . . . I'm . . . s-s-sorry . . . I . . .in-in-interrupted . . . your . . . w-w-work . . ."

I felt something inside my chest seize.  I stood there, staring down at her.  My daughter, in her seven-year-old way, was telling me she wanted to spend time with me, and I hadn't listened.

I sat down next to her, reached out.  She fell into my arms.  That night, I read her three books, sang to her, prayed with her, held her until she fell asleep.

Saint Marty didn't grade a single paper that night.