Betty Lou, a wonderful, generous caregiver at Emily's school has offered a special evening of night-time childcare so those of us who want to can have a parents' night out. Siblings are invited too, so we drop both kids off at 5:30. Betty Lou feeds them, provides books, art activities, cosy cushions and blankets, story tapes and lots of love. She says to come back whenever we're done.
      Joan and I go out to dinner and see the movie, "The Hurricane." We arrive back at Betty Lou's, relaxed and well-nourished at 9:30. Justin's in his jammies listening to an audio version of Pippi Longstocking and Emily is hiding under a blanket, not wanting to go home. We hang out for a few minutes, mellow and happy, finally extract our pair, and head home.
      Joan's putting Justin to bed; it's my turn to be with Emily. She's very tired, and I know from experience that she'll either pass out immediately or tumble over the brink of exhaustion into hysteria. It's hard to predict which way she'll go.
      Emily and I start off with a dispute over which jammies she's going to wear. She wants to change out of her warm winter jammies into her favorite summer pair. I'm worried she won't be warm enough, but I give in on the jammies. I've learned to pick my battles.
      I tell Emily I'll read one book. She picks George and Martha, a classic about best friends who are hippos. There are five stories in the book and I say I'll read all five if she agrees to lay down on her bed by herself and go to sleep as soon as I'm done. She readily agrees-and it is in the realm of possibility. She's actually done it before.
      Emily climbs onto my lap and we read the one where George pours Martha's split pea soup into his shoes, George tries to go up in a hot air balloon, Martha is overly vain, George peeks into Martha's window, and George gets a new gold tooth. Emily listens, riveted.
      As soon as we're done, I turn out the light and she starts to yell, "But I didn't want that book! I wanted another book!"
      "But Emily, that's the book you chose. You handed it to me."
      "You misunderstood me! I wanted another book! I hate that book!"
      She screaming now, and won't let me touch her. She's definitely gone over the rainbow. But I feel calm and loving inside.
      "I DIDN'T WANT THAT BOOK! I HATE THAT BOOK!"
      "Sorry, Emily. I hear that you're really upset, but we're not going to read another book now. We can read another book in the morning."
      Hearing the limit clearly stated, her screaming increases and she starts flailing on the bed. I try to gently pick her up. She fights me, but eventually collapses on my shoulder. But her refrain remains the same: 'I HATE that book! I didn't want that book!"
      I try to hum her night-night song, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in her ear. She screams, 'No!"
      I stop humming for a moment. Then I hum a few more bars, and say, "But Emily, sometimes that song is just in my head and it leaks out. I can't help it." I hum a little more, right in the middle of a line, trying to make her laugh. "Noooo!" she screams. She's clearly not being cajoled out of anything. I stop humming.
      Joan pokes her head in the door and says Emily is keeping Justin awake. I say to Emily, "Justin's trying to sleep. Can you be quiet?'
      Emily, quite loudly: "NOOOO!"
      Me: "Want to go outside?"
      Blessedly, she says, "Yes." So we try the environmental cure.
      I carry her outside. It's an amazingly warm night. We start strolling through the garden and I tell her in a very monotonous voice that Scott was teaching Joan how to prune today. We talk all about trees and how they grow. I show her the apricot tree and the pear tree and the roses and the other things Scott and Joan pruned. I tell her about how pruning can seem like you're hurting the tree, but really it makes trees grow healthier and stronger in the spring.
      After ten minutes of this, I ask Emily if she's ready to go back in. She says yes. I ask if she's ready to stop crying. She says yes. We head back up the stairs to the porch. As we cross the threshold, I whisper in her ear, "Emily, I love you. I love you when you're happy. I love you when you're sad. I love you when you're mad. I always love you." Her head burrows deep into my shoulder.
      We settle back down on the rocking chair. Her head is cradled under my neck, right on my throat. She asks me to sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I sing it nice and slow, three times, just the way she likes it. I feel her relax into a delectable, cosy bundle. It feels so good to hold her warm body as she surrenders to sleep.
      "My bed," she manages in a thick, croaky voice. She's getting too big to fall asleep in our arms.
      I lay her down and tuck her in. I get up to leave and she sleepily asks me to sing her song one more time. Before I get to, "Someday I wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far beyond me," she is snoring, a sweet little child's snore.
      I slip out of her room, pleased that I was relaxed and full enough to meet her at the end of her rope with compassion, love and good humor. When I'm depleted, distracted or stressed, I can't do that, but tonight, my tank was full, and blessedly, I could. And in doing so, I gave us both a precious gift-intimacy and closeness that stayed steady in the face of exhaustion, crankiness and irrationality.
      What if all of us had learned as children that we were lovable even when we could no longer keep a lid on our worst feelings? How much more safely human we all would feel, if we'd known from the start that we could be loved even then.