I finally admit I'm a sleep fighter. That's the first step, right? An hour past bed time last night, my eyelids were so droopy tired, I was using them for slippers, yet I found myself in the closet, suddenly very concerned about the whereabouts of Isaac's hand-me-down winter coats. Brian, festively adorned with an assortment of toddlers, diapers and tooth brushes, caught me mid-rifle to gently offer his support: "You know, maybe this is a good time to tear the house apart for those coats. We might need those tonight." Aww, what a sweet ma-- now hang on a second -- I think I just got patronized!
I reluctantly gave up my search and found a small set of teeth to brush. My sweet Brian already had Isaac in some cute little fire truck pajamas. Ian, still prancing around in his squeaky-clean skin, insisted on having fire trucks too. I opened the pajama drawer and was immediately transfixed by its disarray. Brian was solidly into his narration of Tiger Can't Sleep, with Isaac tucked in the crook of his arm and naked Ian balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. My hunt for more fire trucks segued into a full-blown drawer organization project. My eyes were crossing, but this was "important." About the time Tiger was one-man-band-ing, Brian realized I was into "it" again. "Amy, what are you...?" "Here they are! Ian, let's put on your fire trucks" "O.K., now come to bed....plllease." "Hang on, I have to put all this back."
Finally, we're all tucked into bed. The last story is read. Ian and Brian are discussing who will turn off the light. An idea assaults my groggy brain: Hey, I should go microwave that squishy little foot warmer thingy...
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