Rituals: Prose on Bedtime

Bedtime can be a
Struggle.
It can involve
Whining,
Toothpaste being spit on the mirror,
Finding “just the right”
Pajamas,
(which, by the way, can be an ordeal.)

Usually it involves
The dog,
His grandparents,
His Scott,
And me,
Getting at least ten kisses a piece.
I know it’s a delay tactic
But isn’t that
Just
Priceless?

And then we lay on our bellies
And look out the window
That doubles as my headboard
And count the colors of the sunset.
He will try to call to the sheep,
And
Occasionally
They will answer back.
He will ask for
Just
One
More
Story.
Even if I don’t have a book.

Tonight
I sang:
Blackbird,
Samson,
and
hummed a whole bunch of nonsense.

He says,
“Mom,
The magic confetti that Ms Ferguson gave me didn’t work…
I’m not sleepy…”

I look over and he is drooling on my pillow.

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