It's Friday night. Joan's out for the evening. I'm determined to have a peaceful night. I feed the kids spiral pasta with red sauce and carrots for dinner. Afterwards, we go into the living room where Joan left a fire going for us. I get some candles, turn out the lights, and offer the kids massages. Justin says, "Yeah, a massage!" Emily mimics him perfectly, "Yeah! Massage!"
      Justin yells, "That's not fair! Joan gave Emily a massage while you were making dinner! She already had one. You can only massage me!"
      This wasn't what I planned. I sigh, then say as calmly as I can, "That was then, Justin, and this is now. I'm going to massage both of you. And you can help massage each other."
      "That's not fair!" he insists. "It's not fair for her to get two massages!"
      I try another tact, taking advantage of Justin's budding interest in math. "Justin, how long do Emily's massages last? Maybe a minute before she squirms away? And how long do yours last? Maybe half an hour? Half an hour is thirty minutes! Tonight you're getting a thirty-minute massage and she's getting two one-minute ones. Who do you think is getting more?" He's laughing. "Me!"
      "Okay, you. Take your jammies off. You're first." He lays down on the sheet on the floor, and relaxes completely. He lays on his belly and I pour some heated oil in my hands and start rubbing his back. Emily comes over to help. I give her some oil and she starts rubbing his left leg. After a minute of real concentration, she says, "Other one!" and jumps over to his other leg.
      Then she climbs up and sits on Justin's back. He tries to swat her away, but I encourage him to let her be there. I give her some more oil so she can sit on his waist and rub his shoulders. She does it and for forty-five seconds, it is the sweetest thing I have ever seen.
      On the forty-sixth second, all is lost. She hits him and he swats at her. She hits him again and he slugs her, hard this time. The mood is broken and I yell in frustration, "That's it! Massage time is over!" I grab Emily under my arm, and say, "It's time for bed!" I feel dispirited and hopeless; why do so many of our evenings end up this way?
      Justin starts crying, "It's not fair! You didn't do my neck!" I tell him I'll finish him up after I put Emily to sleep. I begin to turn to leave the room, then I reign my anger in, and make one more attempt to salvage the evening. I dive into the little kid's couch we have, hiding my head with my long legs sticking out. Delighted, both children come to find me. Suddenly they're a team again. Over and over, I hide in ridiculous places in the candlelit room and they roar with laughter each time they find me. After ten minutes, we curl up together on the little couch and I say, "Let's make up." Smiling, they both agree.
      I ask Justin to climb in our big bed while I rock Emily to sleep in the rocking chair. He agrees. I go through my nighttime routine with her, rocking and singing and nursing, but this time I include songs about Justin, too. He's restless and he's smurfing around on the bed. She's not used to him being there; his noises are keeping her up. I keep shushing him.
      Finally, Emily falls into a light sleep, but when I go to put her in her crib, she yells, "No crib!" and holds on tight, and I have to return to the chair.
      The third time this happens, Justin starts crying, "It's not fair! Emily gets so much more of you!"
      I murmur back, "It's hard to wait, isn't it?" With just that little bit of acknowledgment, his tears increase in intensity. "It's like I only get to say hello and goodbye to you and Emily gets you for a whole hour!"
      I feel stricken inside. I am a working mother; Justin is in kindergarten and Emily's in daycare from 9:00 to 3:00 every day. I am immediately awash in guilt, certain I am failing as a mother. But that's not where I want to go tonight. I want to be here for my children, right now, in this moment. I say, "Justin, you sound really sad. Would you like me to rock you, too?"
      "Yeah," he says, an immediate ragged reply.
      I tell Emily I'm going to rock her for two more minutes and then I'm going to put her in her crib. I hear Justin quietly counting to sixty two times. As he approaches 120, I tell her it's time. I put her gently in the crib. She stands up and immediately takes up a plaintive cry.
      I go to Justin's room, bring back his softest comforter and invite him to climb into my lap. Rocking his long lean body, listening to his sister's cries, I realize I haven't rocked him, not once, since Emily was born. He melts into me, a dry and thirsty sponge. I ask him what he'd like me to sing. He chooses all the old lullabies we used to share. Over and over, he asks for, "Bread For The Journey" by Shaina Noll. I hold him tight and sing the words right into his ear:

How could anyone ever tell you
You were anything less than beautiful?
How could anyone ever tell you
You were less than whole?
How could anyone fail to notice
That your loving is a miracle?
How deeply you're connected to my soul.