When my ten-year old asks for a bedtime story, as she does every single night without fail, my husband and I play chicken. I always hope he’ll drag himself up to her room and read to her, and he always hopes I’ll do it (99% of the time, he’s already asleep and I read to her).

I hate admitting this. How can I try to wheedle my way out of a routine that is so sweet and loving and will go on for only such a limited amount of time? She’s already ten years old–will she still ask us to read to her next year? And the year after that?

No, by then she’ll be too busy texting her ten boyfriends and updating her Facebook page. (NOT.)

Come 9pm, I am so desperate to crawl into bed that reading to Svenja seems like a chore. Yet every night, when I lie beside her still-tiny body reading, I end up sinking into the moment and enjoying it. Once I have cracked open the book and started, I no longer feel as weary and bored of chores. I read, I ask her questions, I talk about tomorrow, and I always, always get some quality moments with her.

And yet, every night I feel the same pull of reluctance, and I have to remind myself that these days are numbered, and that those precious quiet moments with her are worth way more than the 15 extra minutes I’d get watching some mind-numbing schlock on TV.

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