Our friend Joelle is visiting from San Francisco. We've just finished dinner. Joelle and the kids and I are sitting out on our back porch eating popsicles. We've just turned the clocks back and we're enjoying the extra hour of warmth and sunlight. Emily is sitting in my lap for some snuggles. She's been whiny and clingy all night. Justin is getting a cold, and he, too, is feeling needy and vulnerable. He tries to climb on my lap. Emily kicks him off with her feet. He tries to hit her back but I hold him off. They continue tussling over my lap. I try to mediate between them. Finally, I get fed up, and say, "That's it!" I push them off and stand up. "Now there's no more lap to fight over." Now both kids are crying.
      I have a strong desire to save this evening. I can't stand another night of screaming kids and fighting. There have been too many of them lately. Suddenly inspired, I say, "How about a massage night?"
      Both kids instantly stop crying. They light up with memories of past pleasure. "I want a massage!" Justin says excitedly.
      "I want a passage," Emily echoes. All her m's have turned into p's lately.
      "Okay, let's have a passage night," I reply, echoing her words, and we all head back inside.
      I get some scented massage oil, a couple of soft, big blankets, and put on some relaxing music. I lay one of the blankets out on the living room floor and say, "Okay, here are the rules. One, no fighting on massage night. Two, everybody who isn't being massaged massages the person on the floor -- gently."
      "I want to go first!" says Justin.
      "I want to go first!" Emily counters. "I want a passage now!"
      "Remember what I said about fighting?" I say, raising my eyebrows at them. "Tonight, I'm going to decide." I point to each child in turn: "Ugga, bugga, mugga, shugga, wooga!" I say, the count ending up on Emily. "Emily's first!"
      Justin says, "Is that a real way to count, Mama?"
      "Sure it is." Then I whisper in his ear, "Justin, Emily needs to go first. She's only two and you know she won't be able to wait. If we get her all relaxed with a massage first, think how much better she'll rub you."
      He accepts this explanation and I ask Emily to take off her clothes. She lays naked in the middle of a flannel blanket, face down on her belly. I distribute the oil and we each warm it up by rubbing it between our hands. Soon three sets of hands are stroking Emily's body: Joelle on her back, Justin on her arms, and me on her legs. Emily goes limp, entirely. Her body is completely relaxed. We work on her for the next fifteen minutes, Justin practicing all the strokes we've ever used on him. It's amazing for me to see him touch his sister with so much love and tenderness.
      We ask Emily to turn over. As I work on her belly, Justin massages her feet and Joelle rubs her head. Emily looks up at us with utter trust and complete relaxation. Her eyes are a deep pool of blue. This child, who never stops talking and incessantly asks "Why?" is silent. She is drinking in our touch, our love, our complete attention. She accepts, without question, her right to sensual pleasure. How many years did it take me to believe I deserved the same thing? A lifetime.
      When we're done, I wrap her in her little blanket and she lays there, a content, dreamy cocoon.
      It's Justin's turn. I start at his feet, Joelle on his back. Justin likes lots of oil, so we really grease him up. He's more directive than Emily, asking us to stretch his legs this way and pop his toes that way. He has a lot of ideas about what we should do. "Shh!" I tell him. "Let us massage you. Put yourself in our hands."
      The music rises and falls in rhythm with our bodies. Emily emerges from her flannel nest and wanders over, stretching out her small hands for oil. She rubs her hands together, a perfect imitation of what we have done, and begins to gently rub her brothers legs. Again, I am deeply aware of how infrequent this kind of loving touch is between them. "We need to do this more often," I think, and then I let the thought go.
      We work on Justin for a long time. Our strong hands wrest relaxation from his small frame. He sighs and his body settles. He stops telling us what to do and his breathing slows. Then is it his turn to be wrapped up like a cocoon, or as he says, "Roll me up like a burrito, Mom."
      Justin offers to massage us, but Joelle and I decline, saying, "Maybe tomorrow." We don't need massages; we are filled with the intimacy of the moment, the pleasure of giving, the beauty of their small bodies, their sacred gift of trust.
      I read the children several stories from Dr Suess's Sneetches. Then I tell Justin it's time for me to rock Emily to sleep. Without complaint, he lets Joelle tuck him into bed.
      I hold Emily in the dark, still night, my hands still moist with oil, and sing to her softly as she drifts off to sleep. As I gently lay her down, I feel happy and full, cherishing the spontaneous success of the evening. Quietly closing her door, I muse to myself, "It was as natural for them to be tender with each other as it was for them to fight," a thought I'm sure to ponder for a long, long time.