Editorial: Turn the light off and go to bed!

By: Sarah Schiavoni

In our house, my father was the bedtime storyteller. My mother would make sure I had clean teeth and a scrubbed face, but it was my father who tucked me in and read me stories. When I was a very little girl, we read Bear and the Big Ripe Strawberry, Goodnight Moon, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, and many other classic children’s books. When I got a little older, we moved on to the poetry of Shel Silverstein and Jack Prelutzky and read and reread so many of the poems that I soon knew many by heart. These poetry books were hard to put down—there was no “The End” to signal it was time for bed, just pages of fun, humorous reading. Each night, my father would tuck me in and sit beside me, reading me countless poems. After a little while, I’d hear my mother say, “Story time is over. Time for bed,” and I’d call back, “Just a few more poems, please!” I could picture her rolling her eyes as she loudly sighed, “alright,” and glanced at the clock to see how late it had gotten. A few minutes later, a few more poems read, and again we’d hear, “Lights out!” I’d beg and plead for just a few more minutes of reading, and she’d acquiesce. A couple more minutes would pass, and I’d hear her yell “It’s time for bed! Turn the light off right now!” My father would grin sheepishly before slipping the book cover flap between the pages on which we left off, saying goodnight, and turning my light off.

As I got older and was able to read for myself, I found I would encounter the same struggle over when to turn off the light and go to bed as I had when I was little. I’d try to read by flashlight, shut my door to help block light from leaving my room, or even turn the lamp back on and continue reading once I knew my parents were in bed and asleep. Huddled in a mass of bedcovers, oftentimes with a cat curled up by my side, I’d read late into the night, constantly telling myself, “I’ll close the book and get some sleep when I finish this chapter,” but finding myself ignoring this promise and continuing to read. If I was close to the end of a book, there was no way I’d be able to put it down before I was finished, and the same was true if I had gotten to an exciting part in the book.

This secret mission to stay up late and read is a story I’ve heard other book-lovers tell. But why did we do this? Why did we ignore our parents’ pleas to go to bed and continue to read by lamplight until we saw spots in front of our eyes and the sun peeking through the window blinds? Why, now grown, do we still huddle under the covers and feverishly read late into the night?

There is something magical about being the only one awake in a dark and quiet house. There is something about reading by dim lamplight, wrapped in the warmth of blankets while the whole house sleeps that is wonderful. While days are ruled by hours, minutes, and seconds, nights seem timeless. Nighttime is dark, quiet, and the perfect time to escape into a book. When I get drawn into a book, surrounded by warm covers, dark shadows, and the soft glow of lamp light, everything is perfect. No distractions, no ticking clock, no schedule—just me and the book.

For those of us who consider reading an experience to be treasured, the lost hours of sleep, disgruntled parents, and book-influenced dreams are all worth it. Those childhood stealth missions to stay up late and read are reminiscent of our attempts to stay up to see Santa Claus or watch the ball drop on New Year’s—they filled us with excitement and wonder, and for those of us who still stay up late, reading by lamplight and hearing the echoes of our parents telling us to turn off the light, the experience is still meaningful.