Boys at bedtime

Micah probably was not a year old when it (or rather he) started: the sillification of that most delicate time of day.
Like a wonky wind-up toy, Micah will crank himself all the way up when, in his weary parents’ opinion, it’s really wind-down time.
I know he’s not unique that way.
Shelves of books have been written to address bedtime stresses – some coarse, some scientific.

Yet, once I’ve left the books behind, I have to admit that not only our worst fights but also our best exchanges have happened at bedtime.

Me, sighing but resigned: “Okay, now you’ve pushed all my twenty-seven-hundred buttons again.”
Micah, devilish: “I love to push buttons!”
Me: “I know.”
Micah: “Do you have any more?”
“No, they’ve all been pushed. They don’t pop up again until tomorrow.”
He’d laugh himself to sleep, if that were possible.

Potty humor, too, is popular that time of day. As are rude noises.
From Micah’s bottom bunk: *!*
From Lysle’s top bunk: “That sounded like an exclamation fart!”
Bottom bunk: giggles
Top bunk: “Can you do a question fart?”
Bottom bunk: “Let’s see …” Some undercover shifting into position followed by: *?*
Top bunk: “Not bad.”
Night night to punctuated flatulence!

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