Last night, Bill and I herded the last of the kids into the boys’ bedroom where the usual pre-bedtime melee was in full swing. We sat on the floor, since the beds were heaped with squirming, squealing lumps.

“Children, ” I said, “come sit down here. We have an important matter to discuss.” And dutifully, they all presented themselves in a line on the floor.

“Come sit here by me, Daddy,” said Katie.

“Oh, no,” he said, “I’m on this side of the discussion.”

And so I began: “You guys have been giving us a hard time for weeks now at bedtime. I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ve decided that perhaps you just don’t know what THE RULES are. So, I’m going to tell you all THE RULES, and then we will expect you all to follow THE RULES. In a few minutes we will say prayers, and then we will tuck you all into your beds and say goodnight. At that point, it is bedtime. THE RULES are that you will lie on your beds, close your mouths, close your eyes, and go to sleep. You will not talk. You will not go get a drink of water. You will not go to the bathroom. You will not stop by your brothers’ or sister’s bedroom on the way to the bathroom to see what they are doing. You will not come downstairs to tell us all the rule breaking your siblings are doing.”

At this point, Katie raises her hand. She is on the verge of tears, but she’s been on the verge of tears for five years now. She barely manages to squeak out her question. “But when are we supposed to go to the bathroom?” Katie happens to be our worst bedtime offender.

“NOW, Katie. You see, when we send you up to get ready for bed, we expect you to get ready for bed: wash up, pajamas on, teeth brushed, bathroom, drink of water, all that. So when we tuck you in and say goodnight, you’re all ready to go to sleep.”

“But what if we really have to go to the bathroom, Mom?” Fritz is old enough to reason that we don’t really want wet beds either, so which “rule” is going to win? I know if you give a kid an exception to a rule, you will deal with exceptions for an hour every night, since that’s been the problem for the last few months.

“Going to the bathroom after bedtime is against THE RULES. If you have to go, I suggest you not get caught. And the best way to not get caught is to go right there, hurry up and get back to bed fast. If you take a long time, stop to admire yourself in the mirror, swing by your sisters’ room to tell them what you’re doing or invite your brother to keep you company, you WILL get caught.”

“Oh.” Hmmm…breaking THE RULES but not getting caught…interesting concept…

“OK, let’s review: after bedtime, are you supposed to stay in bed?”

“YES,” comes a chorus of voices.

“Will you talk to your brother or sister or sing or jump around or read out loud?”

“NO,” comes a chorus of voices.

“Good. Now, infractions are punishable – possibly by spanking. Everybody understand that?”

“YES,” comes a chorus of voices.

And so, after prayers there was a bustle of final preparations for bed that should have been done earlier and will be done earlier tonight, and then the kiddies went off to bed. Five minutes later, Bill passed through and did some remindings of the rules, and five minute after that, I passed through and chased a few kids back to bed. And we heard some thumping from the boys’ bedroom for about ten more minutes. And when we finally went upstairs, we found Katie in her usual spot – sleeping at the top of the stairs, because she’s scared of the dark in her room.

{We allow her to leave the bedroom door all the way open and she’s turned her pillow to be at the foot of her bed and right by the door – basically it is just as light by her head in her room as it is in the hall, but she prefers the hall. This photo was taken last month when she convinced Jenny to sleep with her in the hall.}

We did not spend an hour telling kids to be quiet, so I think it was a success, despite the minor infractions.

And thanks to Advil, the teething toddler made it all the way through the night without waking. Wow. I think I can take on the world after all this rest.

When Bill was deployed to Kosovo in 2003, we lived in a wholly civilian neighborhood. Most people I knew did not know one single other person in the military – not a cousin or a nephew or even a brother of a friend.

When things went wrong with the house or household appliances, I first tried calling friends to see if they wouldn’t mind loaning their husbands to come and take care of this or that. These were really good friends who helped me tremendously while Bill was gone and who would have gladly sawed off their husband’s left arm if it would have alleviated some of my suffering. But in response to my request to fix a storm door, they ALL said, “He’s just not handy like that.” I couldn’t believe they accepted that excuse.

Bill is not afraid of inanimate objects.

So when I pushed the button to start the dryer this morning and it made a horrible sound and emitted a burning smell, I fled to my brave knight and petitioned his assistance. He put down his freshly poured bowl of cereal and came to see what was the matter. I demonstrated the dryer’s bad behavior, and he (God bless him) immediately, although a bit grumpily, motioned to begin battle. Soothed by his confident and calm demeanor, I bade him finish his breakfast first.

After eating and changing out of his pajamas, he took apart the machine to discover that a pencil had gotten sucked in – probably through the lint trap – and had jammed the belt. Can you imagine the jubilant cheers that arose upon news of his triumphant victory? Had I had fresh flowers, I’d have thrown them at his feet or possibly woven them into a crown. The bleak threat of hauling loads of wet clothes to a laundromat to dry was dissipated in a moment and there was joy in all the land.

At least in my neck of it!