Louisa reflected that most of her adult life she had underappreciated bedtime. She longed for the simple pleasures most associate with the end of a long day such as a good novel, a Netflix binge, perhaps a hot bath with candles, or even passing out after one too many drinks. These treasured rituals culminate for a split-second in a wonderful floaty-sinking feeling as the ship departs enveloping you in a pleasant warm paralysis. Bedtime is wonderful, she thought, until a child is involved.

Louisa liked The Circus McGurkus by Dr. Suess. She had read it so many time she could actually read the words out loud and think about other things at the same time. Things SHE wanted to think about like the novel sitting untouched on her nightstand, what she might do with her free time after work and before she had to pick Tommy up from school, and a delicious snack she might make for herself later. The book ended too soon.

Tommy pleaded for another book but was told it was bedtime. 

"No, it's not." 

"Yes, it is." 

"No."

"Yes, it is. It's almost nine o'clock."

"I'm not tired."

A futile thirty-minute tug of war commenced. 

"I want to sleep in my clothes."

"You can't."

"Why?"

Nobody agreed on anything.

"You have to brush them for longer."

"No."

"Do you want cavities?" Louisa received a dirty look, but Tommy complied.

Finally, the lights were out. 

"I'm thirsty." 

"Ok, go get some water."

"I need you to come."

"Really?" but Louisa relented. She could relate to Tommy's fear of monsters lurking in the dark.

Getting back into bed, Tommy could tell his mother's patience was strained so he waited awhile. 

"I'm hungry."

"What!"

More struggle. Louisa inevitably lost.

They got back into bed again and found the green blanket and Monkey. Finally, Tommy settled down. 

"Can I have my stories in the dark?"

For years, Lousia told her son two stories every night before he went to bed. The stories were about the day, imaginary places, real places with imaginary features, superpowers, adventures, space travel, and wishes coming true. All of them were improvised. At some point, she realized she had told thousands of stories. Some of them she and Tommy agreed were great, and she promised herself she would write them down, but invariably forgot. The favorites, of course, they both remembered. 

"Tell me the one where everything turns to candy."

As Louisa described the sofa turning into chocolate cake, and Tommy eating pillows made of marshmallow, she relished the warmth of her son's small body cuddled against her. She felt her body relax and grow heavy. Sometimes she heard herself say words that didn't make sense.

"Mommy!"

"What."

"You're making that noise again."

Louisa made an unintelligible sound as she and Tommy blissfully drifted off.

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Seriously, bedtime for children is like negotiating a hostage situation in reverse. 'I'll give you anything if you'll stay in there!' Jim Gaffigan, commedian