I laid Lydia down last night and gently tucked her into her sheets. We had just finished reading our book for the night, and I could tell she would be fast asleep very soon. I decided to stick around and talk her way into dreamland.

“Lydia,” I said brushing the hair back from her eyes. “I really like your name. Did you know that?”

She smiled, her lips in a strange little W, her eyes already half closed.

“Do you like your name?” I asked.

She nodded her head into her pillow a few times and whispered, “Yes,” And then she seemed to think about something for a few seconds and asked, “Daddy, do you know why they call me Lydia?”

I raised my eyebrows, but shook my head and said, “No.” This was too good of an opportunity to pass up. “Why do they call you Lydia, Lydia?”

Her eyes were fully closed now. “Because,” she said, “I always put the lids back onto things when I’m done with them.”

I ran my hand down her shoulder to smooth out the wrinkles on her comforter, and then kissed her on the forehead. “Oh Lydia,” I said softly, “That is so totally not true for so many different reasons,” but I could tell from her breathing that she was already no longer listening.