Last night before bed, my wife took a turn doing some reading with the kids. Our bedtime reading these days is quite varied. Sometimes, they read. Sometimes, we read. It’s fun, though, a really special time, regardless of who is doing it.

In the middle of the story, my oldest son jumped up, grabbed a book off the floor and ran to his bedroom.

When he came back, I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Just remembered I had to put it away.”

I shrugged and we went back to the story.

Later, after both kids were in bed, and I was heading back up to work, I felt my Daddy-senses tingling. I tip-toed to his door and opened it. Sure enough, his reading light was on.

It turned off as I stepped into the room, and he turned into the picture of a sleeping child.

“Don’t even try it,” I said, turning on the overhead light. “Give me the book.”

Grinning, he sat up and pulled the book out from under his pillow.

I took it from him and glanced at the title. It was the same one he’d picked up off the floor. “Had to put it away, huh?”

“Under my pillow is away.”

“Lights out, kiddo.”