Most nights I'm on Mason duty for bed. The biggest challenge is coercing him to put on PJs. After that, we turn off the light, turn on the radio, and sit in the rocking chair. He immediately puts his head down on me, and lulls himself to a very relaxed state. If he's at all restless, I gently tickle him behind the ear, which makes him giggle and then relax. After just a couple of minutes I ask him, "can Mommy have a kiss?" and he pops his head up for a smooch. Sometimes he'll then point to his crib--frequently it is he who determines we're done rocking. I get up, hand him his monkey, and lay him on his tummy. Very rarely does he make a sound after that.

Cindy has the more, um, rigid task of putting Kenzie to bed. The rituals begin with book-reading. The book is carefully selected by Kenzie. Nobody else has any input into the selection, nor really the right to even question it. The books aren't short. And, you better not skip even a word because she has most of them memorized. If you dare miss a page (which I have tried on occasion, I'll admit), she insists that you start back on Page One. I lost my reading privileges because, not only did I skip a page or two, at one point I dared put rhythm into a poem and was convicted of singing a book! I have forever been labeled a "Bad Reader," and banished from the ritual altogether. (On rare occasion she grants me the privilege, but makes sure I know that it is a special exception.)

Reading is immediately followed by rocking, then by counting. She specifies the parameters: to 10 or 20, forward or backward, English or Spanish. At that point, she is to be carried to her bed and not covered up until specifically requested. Sometimes I am summoned to do the covering, other times Cindy beholds the honor. In either case, the torch is passed to me for prayers. (She always requests a "story" but I usually talk my way out of it. Coming up with original ad hoc adventures became too much pressure. Her inventions are better than mine and I couldn't sustain her standards of originality. "Mom, that's not a good story," she told me one too many times.)

For the prayer I am to kneel down next to her bed but I cannot--must not--put my arms on her blankets. If I ask special permission sometimes I can put them under her blankets. Then I am to put my head on her chest while we both close our eyes and say a prayer. If my head ever comes up, she immediately yanks it back into position. Usually I start the prayer and then she chimes in. We thank God for all our many blessings, which frequently includes a complete recital of the family tree, and a special request for continued "good choices."

As soon as prayer is over, we say our goodnights and I leave the room. A few minutes later she emerges with excuse #1. Tonight she just wanted to know if I was going to sleep with my sweats on or just a tee shirt. Excuse #1 is accompanied by warning #1 from me, something like "come out again and I take Conrad" (Chirpie’s fraternal twin brother). After one more round of kisses, she goes back into bed, to emerge a few minutes later with excuse #2, followed by consequence #1 until we negotiate a deal whereby she gets to keep the rest of her animals if she stays in bed.