The precise origins of the Green Dragon of the Nighttime Routine play are now obscure, but it came about when Mara was four or five, and I think it’s probably a safe bet that the reason it was not the Blue Dragon of the Nighttime Routine or the Butterscotch Dragon of the Nighttime Routine or the Puce Dragon of the Nighttime Routine is because green was the color of the blanket that hung over the back of the sofa, that still hangs over the back of the sofa, and not one of those other colors.
It went like this: Mara would be Mara and I would be me, her dad. She would ask me to go and call for the Green Dragon of the Nighttime Routine to swoop her up and carry her from the bathroom, where I had just brushed her teeth (part of the nighttime routine), to her bedside. I, her dad, would grump that there was probably no such thing as the Green Dragon of the Nighttime Routine, but off I’d go, down the hall and into the living room, calling “Green Dragon! Green Dragon!” [Stage note: I would make my voice quieter with each call, as if a great distance were expanding between myself and the bedroom.]
I would then grab the blanket from the back of the sofa and unfurl it around me and hold it expanded like great green wings. I would make a rushing wind noise with my mouth as I returned down the hallway to the bathroom, where I (now the GDNR) would land kneeling before Mara and furl my wings. Mara and the dragon would converse in noble language. Mara would say how her father was out looking for him at that moment (she began using the elevated term “father” instead of daddy about this time, understanding that this was how children in stories usually addressed their dads), and the GDNR would say how adults never could see him. He would ask her if she was ready to be carried over sea and land to the realm of slumbers.
Then he lifted her up in his arms and carried her out and around the living room, alternating between making the rushing wings noise and interpreting the seas, deserts and oceans and forests they passed over. This all took only a few seconds, and they ended up at her bedside where she alit. The dragon then assured her that he would be keeping watch over her, as he always did, from his mountaintop in the forest.
Away then in a rush of wings again he sped, out of the bedroom and down the hall. Once again transformed — like Cinderella’s footmen at midnight’s stroke — to my accustomed self, I dumped the green blanket on the sofa to be folded later and began grumbling in a voice that now grew louder as if approaching from afar off, saying things like “…don’t believe there even is a green dragon…” and “…well, I called and called, but I sure didn’t find him…” and “…I think the whole green dragon business is hokum…”
Back in the bedroom, I (Mara’s dad) would announce that the GDNR was nowhere to be found, and then do a Fred Flintstone head-shaking double-take and say, “wait, how did you get in here from the bathroom?” Mara laughed delightedly and told me that the Green Dragon of the Nighttime Routine had come and fetched her to her bedside while I was out looking for him. I would dismiss this as nonsense, and she would insist that it was true, but in a very gamey, giggly way — she knew that this was a play, that there was a veil of pretense that must be carefully maintained, that I as dad could never acknowledge my identity as the wingéd guardian.
The Green Dragon of the Nighttime Routine — Mara actually pronounced it more like “ratine” — eventually stopped coming around. A couple of years ago I asked Mara if she remembered the dragon, and she said she did. I don’t recall now how the play has come back into currency, even though it was just a few weeks ago. Maybe Mara mentioned it, or maybe I just grabbed the old blanket one evening at bedtime. In any case Millie, my younger, found herself standing before the great dinosaur for the very first time. He remarked how Mara had grown since last he saw her and asked who this little other person was, and Mara introduced her little sister to the GDNR in flowery court tones.
Millie was struck silly with glee and shyness about it all — the shyness I guess because the dragon’s gaze is penetrating and all-seeing, his manner kind but strange, his intense focus and upright bearing unlike that of the tired-ass dad who’s worked all day. And also, shyness, I think, because at this age and being Millie in particular, she is very attached to truthfulness, and the whole idea of my carrying out such a bald fiction makes her a tad nervous.
At first she giggled uncontrollably and insisted that the Green Dragon was really Daddy, not yet understanding how these things are to be spoken about (and because, gosh, the GDNR looks a lot like me). But now every evening after I finish brushing her teeth she says “I have to tell you suh-inks”* and stands on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear “I want the Green Dragon of the Nighttime Routine to carry me”. At which suggestion, of course, I harumph that never in all the times of looking for him have I ever seen him, and don’t really believe there is such a thing, etc..
But I always go, and after several minutes I always come back and listen with exaggerated eye-rolling disbelief to the tale of a great, strong, kind, dragon that promises to watch over the girls while they sleep and keep them safe from all harms.
*”suh-inks” is Millie’s word for ‘something’ — it’s one of those odd personal usages that linger, the same way Mara even now continues to say “regwial” when she means ‘regular’. We do not correct these aberrations and we try not to draw attention to them, cherishing them instead as temporary gems along the road of language development, because one by one they eventually will all lose their glimmer and become the bland stones of common usage.