The Masters and Bedtime

When my kids were babies, I played The Masters theme song to put them to sleep, and it worked every time.

Annabelle was easy to put to bed. All she required was at least a dozen goodnight kisses, her stuffed animals neatly tucked in, and my nighttime prayer whispered in her ear. When I finished, I’d cup my hand over her little ear so the prayer wouldn’t slip out. She always made sure I prayed for all the puppies in the world and for all the kids who didn’t have mommies and daddies. Those memories pull on my heartstrings like nothing else.

My son, Andrew, always wanted me to crawl into bed with him—and I was happy to. He wanted to hear stories about race cars, puppies, and soldiers, but mostly, I think he just wanted his father next to him. We’d say our prayers together, I’d kiss him goodnight, and attempt to leave, which never worked. He wouldn’t let me go until he was sound asleep. So many nights I’d lie beside him, watching him breathe, falling more in love with him with every breath.

Above his bed hung pin flags from The Masters, the 2011 PGA Championship at the Atlanta Athletic Club, and one of his tiny socks taped to the wall. When I noticed it, I asked him why it was there. His response was so innocent, “In case Santa has more presents for my stocking, Daddy.” It melted my heart.

On weekend nights before bedtime, the kids would make me lie face-down on one of their beds, pretending my back was a pizza they had to top with ingredients. Of course, they didn’t gently place the make-believe pepperonis—they slapped them on my back, erupting in laughter. Before I knew it, my son was dropping elbows on me like Hulk Hogan. They’d laugh until they couldn’t breathe.

Where did the time go? At least I can put The Masters theme song on and well up with emotion.