Cold Spaghetti

Important business, this reading Heifer International’s newsletter.

No, really, Mom.  Did you know you a flock of chicks is only $20?

Thanks, Heifer.  With YOUR help, we’re just one pants-less morning away from Potty Trained.

Yesterday, I tried to do my civic duty to teach my kids about Martin Luther King Day and about the historic event of this Tuesday’s inauguration.

Or, rather, I showed Will a clip of the “I Have a Dream” speech.  Response: “Mommy, it looks… old.”  There was another comment, something related to the word “bored” but I’ve blocked it from memory.  We’re focusing on the positive in the Cold Spaghetti household.

Later, after a short description of what will happen tomorrow, I read the kids a book about the Office of President of the United States.

Okay.  What ACTUALLY happened was that I prepared to read them a book about being President.  Then I  waited on Kate while she went through the book herself, refused to share, and spent 2 minutes in time out after she ran away with the book shouting “WILL CAN’T SEE MY BOOK!”   Eventually we all sat down together to read it.

Little Betty Lou from Sesame Street sees the Big Black Car of the President go by and she dreams about all the things she would do if she were President.

Like give speeches to the United Nations.

And fly in Air Force One.

And work in the Oval Office.

And attend the Easter Egg Rolling on the White House Lawn.

And have a penis.

You think I’m joking, but I’m pretty sure I added that last part in, just to make sure they were listening.  And also because we’re all about honesty in this household.

But you know, maybe I’m wrong.  Granted, I’ve felt strongly that we would see an African American man as President before we’d see a woman in the same role.  But it happened so soon, and for a man who is approaching the Presidency from a rational perspective.  It’s wonderful and overwhelming and unbelievable. So unbelievable that everyone seems to believe that this IS a point of change, and that tomorrow, anything is possible.

I wanted my kids to understand that.

Instead, Will asks, “Mommy, is tomorrow a school day?”

“Yes, it is.  But when you come home, we’ll watch the new President speak on the computer.”

“Okay.  But can we play Lego Star Wars first?”

The party happened.

I’m very embarrassed to admit this, but it’s a day and a half later and I still feel hung over. From the 90 minute party, in a location away from my house where they did just about everything, with very friendly well-mannered 5 year-olds who had a great time. Based on those facts, my new greatest fear is a sleepover with a dozen 11 year-olds.

10 days ago, when I called Elmwood in a desperate state, wondering if they too had everything booked party-wise, I happened to be on the phone when a cancellation for a party Saturday morning came in. Not wanting to ignore the miracle happening before me, I took the slot. It was for 90 minutes in the Adrenaline Rush Room, 60 of which is dedicated to a all-you-can-bounce inflatable obstacle course and 40-foot trampoline. The last 30 minutes is for pizza and cake. Very clear, straightforward, and easy. The kids had a blast.

Here is some video of them in the first few minutes of the party…

Will blew out his candles (in three tries) surrounded by some girlfriends. He was adorable.

Thank goodness it’s over.

(In that second picture, I tried to play around and see how it would look if I took out the candle reflections on his head. Not too well. Obviously, Momma needs to take in a few more photoshop tutorials on patching. And, if you think the pictures look grainy, it’s because they are. I didn’t want to use the flash — kids hate it — and the available light was dim. Sometimes you just gotta go to 1600.)

Today is Will’s 5th birthday and that is a big deal. Five is just a big deal. We have five fingers, five toes. There are five workdays in our week. We have a nickel for five cents and a five dollar bill and learn to count money in fives. And when their children are at the age of 5, Mothers have to take a long, hard look and realize that they have managed to raise a newborn to an infant to a baby to a toddler to a preschooler to a kid.

This post was suppose to be my tome to my first baby, my boy, the infant I cried everyday over for months, spent hours hooked to a pump and feeding through a finger-tube. The baby I struggled to care for while starting a PhD. The toddler I took away from home before a storm destroyed our city. The preschooler who attended three schools in under a year, spoke two languages, and lived in 3 countries before turning 3 years old. The boy I now look to for help around the house. That guy.

But instead, my arm is weighed down by the heavy head of Kate, who has been throwing up for 7 hours. I’m afraid to leave her side, as she’s so lethargic that I am concerned over her ability to turn her head and not choke when her body decides it’s time for another go. She’s wiped out all her pajamas, most of my clothes, and countless towels, bedcovers, and blankets. It’s going to be a long, long night.

One thing we know is that she won’t make it to Will’s Birthday Party tomorrow.

One other thing I know is that we’re two for two on our lives failing apart right before the Po’Boy Fest; this was the same week Paul had the emergency appendectomy a year ago. I sense a pattern.

So until I can say something more complex and memorable about my darling boy, here is the picture-book account…

Will, fresh out. With antibiotic all over his little eyes. (U of Michigan hospital, Ann Arbor, MI)

Will, eating his first ever cake on his first birthday, New Orleans:

Will on his 2nd birthday. We had a small party in the front yard. Folks came from around the block and commented that this was, “the first post-Katrina party”. My Mom brought a helium tank from Alabama so that we could have some balloons, which Will spent the entire morning popping.

Will on his 3rd Birthday. Argh.

Will, with the little O’Delice cake for his 4th birthday.

Will, today, on his 5th birthday, with his classmates signing Happy Birthday (in French, of course).

Tonight was our first parent teacher conference of the year. The kids are in a French school, immersed in French all day long, so it’s been a bit of a mystery to us as to how they were doing. For Kate we had no worries; she’s young, she’s in the most primary of classes the school offers, and there are no huge developmental issues that need immediate attention (eventually we’ll turn to pottying and removal of Abby — her pacifier — but we’re currently living in the beautiful world of LATER on those issues).

For Will, it’s been constant worry. Worry that he was struggling with a bully. Worry that he wasn’t able to sit still. Worry that he is the youngest (or almost the youngest) in the class. Worry that he isn’t bringing home points to show good behavior. Worry that he is over-tired without a nap. The worry came from little things that we were seeing: a random bathroom accident around the same time as the concern over the bully, increased difficulty and whiny behavior at home, the fact that he wasn’t bringing home ‘creature cards,’ given when students reach 10 points for good behavior (there is the possibility to earn 1 point each day). Although he seems to love school (he never wants to go home when we arrive to pick him up), he complains about going to school each morning. Was he showing us signs that he was stressed? Were we missing important clues that indicate a problem?

We have been in communication with his teacher and the school director about our concerns. It’s fair to say that I am a high-maintenance Mom when I don’t understand something. (Although I would prefer the terms “engaged” and “involved.”) It’s a new school, the learning curve is steeper than we would have thought, and getting information from other parents has been difficult. Thankfully, the school staff is understanding and accommodating of our questions.

Nana (Paul’s Mom) came yesterday and spent the morning with Will’s class. Via her report, in class, Will is quiet. He fidgets, but really no more or less than any of his classmates. When asked to do something, he follows direction without hesitation, which she felt was strong indication that he understood the commands. At one point, the teacher pulled out dice and some cards. She called over students one by one and asked them a series of questions, rolling the dice and showing the cards — a test of numbers, counting, and letters. Nana couldn’t tell what the right or wrong answers were, only that comparatively, Will seemed to fly through the questions.

So we arrived at Will’s conference a little nervous. I had my notebook out, pen raised.

“Will,” his teacher began, “Will is… what is the word…?” (Will’s teacher is French, she’s searching for the right word) “… he is…”

My hand readies to write.

“… amazing.”

I freeze. Really? I put down the pen. This is not the word I thought she was going to say.

She proceeds to tell us that she had wondered if Will was learning at all, that she sees him looking around the room, daydreaming, not really paying attention. That when they learn songs, she wonders how well he knows the words. That he is shy and doesn’t speak. (This is normal with immersion — in the first year, children tend to primarily listen. In the second year, they begin to speak.) So today, when she checked in with the students in preparation for the afternoon’s parent meetings, she was “amazed” that Will not only flew through the dice and cards, but that he did it faster and with accuracy equal to that of the students who had been in French school for several years. “You should be very proud of him,” she told us with a smile.

I’d love to say that we are simply outstanding parents, dutifully fostering his French learning. But outside of asking him to teach us different words or sing songs for the video camera, we’re not doing much. All this time and worry about Will, when the truth is that he is really, truly learning, completely in stride with his class. It was the first time I’d actually believed that maybe he wasn’t going to be held back from Kindergarten (all my worry had resigned me to this reality, because I was so sure we’d made the wrong choice by putting him in the Kindergarten in the first place.) Could this be anxiety over how fast this kid is growing up?

As we left the school, feeling a bit shocked and surprised, Paul says, “We managed to get through our first parent-teacher conference without the words ‘restraining order.’ I consider that a success.”

Then we exchanged glances and he voiced what we both were thinking, “I spoke too soon; we still have to do Kate’s.”

Three animals Kate adores:

Dragons, Dinosaurs, and Tigers.

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At 3 days:

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Three things Kate will tell to “GO AWAY” when she sees them lurking around the house:

– Monsters, Bears, and Buggies.

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At 3 weeks:

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Three things Kate will enthusiastically eat an entire container of, in one sitting:

– Mac & Cheese, Cookies, Raspberries

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At 3 months:

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Three topics of conversation Kate never tires of:

– Smoke detectors.  “Has a red light.  Makes loud noise.  Get out of the house!”

– Fireworks.  “Don’t touch them!  Big ow-ee.  I stay over here.”

– Baseball.  “Man throws ball.  Man runs.  I eat hotdogs.”

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At 13 months:

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Three books Kate likes to reference in conversation:

– When Sophie Gets Really, Really Angry.    – Barnyard Dance.   – Pajama Time.

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2 years, 3 months:

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Three phrases recently said of Kate:

– “She tells the funniest little stories” (Kate’s new teacher at Ecole Bilingue.)

– “She’s really got this thing figured out, hasn’t she?” (Parent observing her on her second day of school.)

– “I have to marry Kate because I love her so much more than anyone and will love her forever”  (Will.)

Lately, things have been hard for Will. He has a sister who is a “crazy monkey” (his words) and adores him to the annoying level of copying EveryThingHeDoes. He just started at a new school where his teacher and a ton of the students speak French most of the time. He misses his friends at his old school. And his parents NEVER feed him hamburgers. Or let him stay up all night.So it’s understandable that tonight, during the bedtime lament that has become the standard in the past week, Will became upset. SO UPSET that I was not only declaring it bedtime, but also time for teeth brushing, that he would say terrible things. To me. His Mother. Really terrible things.

And this is where I had my Big Moment. All those words and threats rolled off me as cool and clean as water and I got down to meet him eye to eye and said in a most natural and pleasant voice:

“It’s okay, Will. I know that you love me and you don’t mean those things. And it’s okay, because no matter what you say or what you do, I will always love you more than anything in the world. In fact, I love you SO MUCH that I am making you go to bed, even if it means you will be mad at me, because I know that you need rest to have a good day tomorrow and I want you to have a good day. And I love you SO MUCH that I want your teeth to be healthy, so I make you brush them, even when it makes you so angry that you don’t want to cooperate with me. So it’s okay to be mad at me. Because I love you.”

Then, just in an instant, everything changed. All that stuff about love being the salve for anger? Apparently it’s on the mark. Will’s angry tears dried up and, much to my surprise, his mouth opened for the toothbrush. He even went to bed without too much more fuss. (Okay, he whistled and woke Kate up, which lost him TV privileges tomorrow, but compared to what was in the works 15 minutes earlier, this was nothing.)

Mommy got the GOAL! tonight, but will have to ice her knees and rest for tomorrow; because we will not be having hamburgers for dinner.

The last three weeks.

We had a week-long visit from:
Nana. Who brought presents, time, patience, and recipes. The day she left, Kate wandered around calling “Naaaaa-Naaaah, Where ARE youuuuuuu?” (Subtext: “Save me from these crazy people!”)
Having a third adult in the house was a huge relief. It was also well-timed, because the day she left and returned us to a house of two adults, we downloaded a child.

He was thrilled to be spending almost a week away from home, his parents, and his particularly his sister. In Will’s words: “Mommy, I needed a break from that crazy girl. She’s too much for me.” I dropped Will off with my Mom in Gulfport (our half-way meeting place) and he joined Granna and PapPap on a trip to visit my brother and sister-in-law. (My incredible sister-in-law, who by all accounts spent 5 hours a day on the floor re-reading the same books and cards so patiently to the-ever-curious-Will, has posted adorable photos from the trip.)

While Will was away from home for the longest time ever, Paul turned 38 on May 5th. This is remarkable only because I told at least 3 people that he was turning 36. I also wrote that I was 30 on a doctor’s form a few months ago and only realized the mistake because “date of birth” and “today’s date” were close enough together to make me do the math. I’m not forgetting little things, I’m actually forgetting years. It must mean that it’s time for us to have some sort of life crisis.

Also on Cinco de Mayo, our friends Alex and Dawit were married. (The wedding date was chosen because it’s Alex’s birthday, too.) In between a day of picking up tiles, switching cars, dropping off kids, and buying paint, I took photos of the event and you can see them here.

Meanwhile, back at the station, the house continues.

Drywall took a long time. There were delivery problems. Supply problems. And daily layers of drywall dust… dirty, gritty, drywall dust… ALL OVER the bedrooms and hallway each evening to mop, dust, polish, and wash off. And, we’re back to no washer and dryer. Still, the crew (comprised of a husband and wife) did a very good job.

Here’s the site of the future cat-door to Scout’s litter-box “room” under the washer and dryer.
Outside, Paul spent a good 20 hours on the roof over 2 days. It’s done, although these pictures show it as still-in-progress.

Now that it’s done, I’m thinking we may finally be able to remove the ever-present can of Goo Gone from our shower?
We discovered that Kate can work the garden hose. WATCH OUT.
Note that Will’s head is soaking wet. Coincidence with that last picture? I think not.
Kate also discovered an obsessive love of ice. Workers (read: Daddy) must carefully guard their precious cups ice water, lest it be plundered by the Sweet Pea with the dirty hands.
Also: Kate loves Crabby Jack. Oysters. Shrimp. And duck. (Domilise’s for Roast Beef, though, of course.)
Kate turned 2 and got presents. Including ELMO UNDERWEAR from Gwen & Co. Here she is, putting on Every Single Pair.
And dancing.
My Fellowship Year officially began with our Orientation Retreat. At first it was going to be an overnight event, but it was shortened to a Really Long Day in Baton Rouge. Who knew the LSU campus was so darn pretty??? The group is inspiring and interesting; I left the day feeling an unexpected excitement for the coming year. We did a variety of team-building exercises, including ropes. I surprised myself by having fun, and realizing that my recently-developed fear of heights is more extreme than I thought. I was Very Impressed with the folks that climbed the 60 foot pole, stood up, and jumped for the trapeze. Here’s Jonathan, the only one to touch the bar, in one of my favorite pictures from the day:
This one of Kemi is probably my favorite:
Meanwhile, back at the station, drywall finished. Tile started.
Tomorrow, the base of the washer/dryer platform will be grouted and trimmed… so we’re hoping to have these back by Wednesday?Paul ALMOST finished the plumbing today while I wrangled kids and house. The tub plumbing is hooked up and tested perfectly. The ONE LEAK in his intricate shower plumbing? It wasn’t from a failed joint… it was a failed PIPE.
The darn elbow had a crack and hole. When Paul went to Lowe’s to get another elbow, he came home with the wrong kind. When he went back to trade, they were closed. As was Home Depot. Plumbing to Paul is like Cryptonite to Superman. Utterly defeated and forced to wait until the morning… because, after all, tomorrow is another day.

After living through your brother at the age of 3, I became totally cool with the “terrible” twos. Not a problem, I thought, bring it on. So as you have approached age 2 and started to show independence (read: pushing tired parents to their limits of sanity), I have been feeling pretty laid back about it. I’ve done it before, so I figured it would be easier this time around.

I forgot the Number One Rule of parenting. NOTHING EVER GETS EASIER.

I am realizing that a toddler at age 2, when accompanied by an older 4-year old sibling, is a Very Different Experience. Just like how watching all that water spill down Niagara Falls from the Canadian shoreline is a very different experience from, say, rolling down the falls in a barrel. In one, you can admire the power and majesty in relative safety. The other could kill you.

It is impossible to talk about how you are changing and growing without mentioning your brother. He is your best friend, your constant advocate, your watchdog… as well as your bully, your punching bag, and your collaborator in the grand plan to Break Mommy. I admit that it’s all my fault that you both are bent on my destruction; I set it all up myself. I’ve thought about this, ruminating on how you have identified my weaknesses and have pinned it to the moment when I found you happily eating cat poop. There you sat, brown smears all over your face, and watched enthralled while my entire body went boneless and my tongue fell out of my mouth, and I had to fumble around for 10 minutes groping for words, cleaning supplies, and whatever drug erases memory. In stark contrast was your Dad, who sort of looked over his shoulder, like, ‘what? cat poop? dude, I ate WAY worse in college.’ You realized two things then and there: 1. that I am an easy target; and 2. the melt down is totally worth it.

I figure this is proof positive that you are The Brain to Will’s Pinky, because I swear I didn’t have nearly as many break downs when he was this age. And it’s not YOU. And it’s not HIM. Separately, both of you can be quite pleasant. It’s THE TWO OF YOU, TOGETHER. You’ve worked out each and every one of my buttons so well that working together, the pair of you can naturally and seamlessly move between one area (say, grossing me out) to another (like, flirting with dismemberment) without pause.
This is not to say that you aren’t a challenge on your own. Mostly, your challenges come from the fact that you are stubborn and can seriously hold a grudge. Case in point: when I took you inside at dusk and removed your wet dress to ready you for the shower. The following pictures document a solid 15 minutes of Conniption Fit, where you picked up your dress from the floor and worked hard to put it back on, growing more angry the more tangled you got. Two days later, when I took this dress out of the laundry to hang it up, you grabbed it from the hanger and threw it to the ground. Whoa, I thought, THAT is an impressive grudge.

Now that I think of it… the dress has little flowers on it, which is making me wonder if you are associating your anger with the dress on my petunias, since your “helpful” dead-heading is kept primarily to new, fresh blooms?
For someone that knows how to keep a grudge, you are amazingly forgetful about your own transgressions. It goes like this: you and your brother are locked in some kind of epic tickle or bouncing or running event and someone (read: your brother) gets hurt. Or alternatively, you just walk right up to him and smack him on the head. Either way, Will ends up crying and you end up apologizing. We ask you, “Kate, did you hurt Will?” And you blink all blank-face and say, “yeah,” in this ‘did I do that?’ way that makes it hard to keep a straight face. Will is ready and set to brood for at least 10 minutes, but you recover in an instant. Like, ‘I know I totally just power-drived you into the floor, but hey, let’s go empty Mom’s sock drawer and see if we can make her face split open to the bone, ’cause that is totally cool.’ And in an instant, you’ve turned him around. Because no one can stand mad at you.

One of the most exciting parts of being with you these days is your incredible language development. You blow everyone away with your words, which is impressive considering that no one understands more than 25% of what you say. When you really get on a roll, babbling on and on about this and that, gatos and doggies, Emmy and Elmo (favorite points of conversation), I run for the camera. I am so eager, desperate even, to capture these precious moments of your turn from toddler to child. Which explains why the emergence of the camera always causes you to shut right up.
It is amazing that you speak as much as you do, mostly because you still spend a lot of time with your pacifier stuck in your mouth. We have high hopes of potty training you in the next few months, so between that and starting a new school, we’ve decided to hold off on pacifier removal until the fall. Even mentioning our desire to wean you, partially or completely, from the Thing causes your Granna great distress: she’s certain that the root of every problem Will has or is going to have for the rest of his life is connected to our weaning him from the pacifier at age 3. But we have a plan. Although your brother is still 3 years away from having permanent teeth, he has already been given a referral from our dentist to see an orthodontist. We intend on forwarding on all orthodontia bills to Granna and figure that this will bring drastic change to her extreme support of the pacifier. But it will be okay. You are the strongest kid we know and will do fine without the Abby (your name for the pacifier, why, we have no idea). Although I admit that seeing you with it makes me feel that you are still my baby, at least, for a little bit longer…

On your birthday, you explained exactly what I should expect from a 4-year old:

“4-year olds are big boys. They don’t hit, or whine, or kick, or talk back, or have a bad attitude.”

Whoa.

I had my doubts. After all, you’d spent the months leading up to age 4 testing almost all of the above… lapsing into defiant stand-offs that involve my carrying your thrashing body back to your room for time alone. Perhaps all of this effort wore you out? Because honestly, so far, the reality of you at age 4 has been closer to your prediction (outlined above) than mine (continuing increase in maddening defying behavior and tantrums). I remain skeptical of a complete transformation but am happy to be in this place while it lasts.

One of the things I am enjoying most about you is that you love art projects. Ever since “Miss Georgia” came from the Bead Shop to teach you to make earrings, you’ve been begging to make jewelry. I am not sure you appreciate how incredible happy it makes me to hear you ask to do art and craft projects and I am doing my best to take it all in stride, lest you realize the power the request has over me. After we put Kate to bed, you and I share an hour each night doing these projects together. We paint, make jewelry, draw, make ornaments, and string Mardi Gras beads into garland for the Christmas tree.
This last activity was what we were up to when you sailed from the stool where you were perched holding beads, hitting the wooden armrest of the sofa on the way down. Rather than climb down (as you’ve done many times from this same stool you sit on regularly to play pinball), you decided to jump at an angle, as if to land next to the bag of beads. I saw the blood before you did, seeping out from between your fingers as you covered your eye. That sight — you holding your hand over your eye, screaming out while blood began to pour — definitely aged me as I considered the possibility of a serious eye injury. For the record, you only cried for a short minute. Either due to my immediate response, cradling you in my arms and speaking softly and quietly to calm you, or because you are like your sister and have a diamond-clad head. We were all very thankful to see that you missed injuring your eye, bursting open the tissue in your eyebrow instead. We are also very thankful that we had you fixed by a doctor, as the location and depth of your wound made a level of complication that we could not have addressed. Now you have one purple eyebrow patch over your right eye, making folks suggest you’re sporting a Drew Brees look. (Believe it or not, I still don’t have a picture of the injury. Coming soon, though.)
Speaking of right and left. You have begun to master these directional specifics. Although you are committed to getting them backwards. I explained how you use your fingers to make an “L” for left, but realize this is a mute point since you are similarly committed to writing letters backward.

Kate remains your biggest fan and your biggest bully. Rarely does a day go by when she hasn’t clobbered you with something. We are working hard on reigning her in, showing you that the behavior is no way tolerated, reminding you of how we all have to work together to teach her how to treat others. Still, we realize that what really needs to happen is for you to just clobber her back. Of course we will never suggest this, and if you were to take up such a position we’d correct you accordingly with much displeasure. But we think that a little dose of her own medicine would help her learn a bit faster.Despite the regular beatings, you adore your sister. At least, when she’s not playing with the toy you Just Had or taking apart the train track you Just Fixed or pushing the truck you Just Took Down or banging on the drum too loud when you Just Want To Play Guitar. All of these things are major offenses in your book and cause for incredible whining. In general, we are supportive of your arguments of injustice but the truth is that we have a hard time caring that much about it. If your Dad and I have learned anything about parenting, we have learned that parents don’t want justice, we want QUIET.In the face of our resolution that you Work It Out, you have actually begun to find ways to play with your sister for extended periods of time (i.e.: longer than 1 minute). Like the other morning, when your Dad was in the hospital and I was alone with you two, trying to get dressed in the back of the house. I could hear you, laughing and playing together up front. I was so proud, almost not believing that your playtime had gone so long without either one of you breaking the mood with an ear-splitting wail. When I finished and went to retrieve you both, I found that you were bonding over art — happily planting stickers all over your rocking chairs and supplementing the colorful menagerie with marker ink. This is now a common theme: that you and Kate find an uncanny comradery when the two of you are doing something you are not suppose to be doing.

In your 4-year check-up, you got FOUR injections. Two in each arm. You spent two days talking about how you were going to “get shots” from the doctor, so much that you seemed excited about it. When the moment came, you hesitated and then started to stutter: “B..b…but I d.. d.. don’t like to get POKED!” By the time you got out “poked,” Dr. Oates was done with two of the shots and you had an alligator tear pouring down your cheek. Aside from the time a nurse failed to hold your leg, causing you to kick and the needle to tear into the tissue of your thigh, this was the only time you’ve cried tears for an immunization. The good news is that you’re now immunized for just about everything we can immunize you for — so it will be awhile before you have to endure another poke.

At the same visit, you had the following stats:
Weight: 36 pounds, 7 ounces (75%)
Height: 42 1/5″ (90%)

These were very exciting numbers because it means you’re tall enough to ride most of the rides at Disney World. It also shows that you are actually thickening up; we’ve had to loosen the waist adjustment on your pants in order for you to button them up. Finally — eating Granna’s pie with PapPap (read: 16 ounces of whipped cream with each ounce of pie) is working to fill you in.

Each night, we still sing our songs. “Feed the Birds” remains the favorite. But when you’re truly ready for bed, you request “Stay Awake,” and sing the first few words with me before falling quiet. Like in the movie, you close your eyes in the middle and by the end, are asleep.