It was just after midnight. The house was quiet. Outside, in the inky night, I could hear the light taps of the year's first rain. My seven week old son lay in my arms dreaming most likely of formula, soft blankets, and standing on the pitcher's mound at Wrigley Field after winning his first World Series. Just as I began to drift off myself, his bedroom door opened and my daughter walked in.
"If it's raining in the morning will Punkin still be able to come to school with me?"
"Of course, dear. It's time for sleep right now. Back to bed, okay?"
"Okay," she answered, coming further into the room and sitting down on the floor. "Can I wear my fishy jammie shirt for an undershirt tomorrow?"
"No. Honey, it's really not time for talking about clothes. It's time for bed."
"Is he sleeping?" She asked, lightly patting his head.
"Yes, and I'd like to keep him that way."
"Rules are for you, too, Mom. Go to bed."
She turned on her heel, walked out of the room, and went back to sleep.
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