BEDTIME

He balanced his lanky six-foot frame on the sliver of bed she left for him. Probably less than a third his size, she sprawled along the rest of the twin-sized mattress. "How can something so small take up so much space?" he thought. He could see that this tiny night owl was nowhere near ready for a visit from The Sandman. He grabbed the pillow and folded it in half, propping himself up while she snuggled in close for her nightly bedtime story. Having every ounce of her father's attention at storytime was what she lived for.

He had been on his feet, dealing with customers all day. To make ends meet, he worked six days a week, in the Houston humidity. But she couldn't see the weary look in his bloodshot eyes. She couldn't sense the concern in his body language. She knew nothing of long workdays, family drama, or late mortgage payments. She was just a precocious four-year-old that would push the envelope as far as it would go to stay up late.

He opened the thin, brightly colored Little Golden Book and began, "The Train to Timbuctoo." It was her favorite! She squealed with delight before he could even reach the first sentence. This story and his little girl were the only things now. Everything else in life faded into the background as he told the story of the little trains.

The images were more vivid in her mind than they were on the page; Shiny, brightly colored engines, racing down the track to towns with long, funny names like Timbuctoo and Kalamazoo. They were images that stuck with her into grade school math classes, where word problems sent trains chugging down the line to far less exciting places like Pittsburgh or Kansas City.

She could practically recite the story word for word, and often mouthed the words as her father's soothing voice tried to lull her to sleep. Easing her excitement was a struggle fought in vain. There was no soothing this savage beast! She could have stayed up all night if he let her.

The best part of the book was coming up. They both knew it, and as he turned the page she screamed out, "No, Daddy! Don't do it! Don't do it, Daddy!" But he was a father, and as any father will tell you, there is no greater joy than embarrassing your child. This is a lesson learned early in fatherhood. The first time you make your child blush is a moment of pride!

A phrase in the book referring to train sounds was supposed to read, "pock-it-ah, pock-it-ah, pock-it-ah." But instead, against the behest of his little girl, he wrongly pronounced it "po-quita, po-quita, po-quita," immediately conjuring up visions of the Chiquita Banana logo of a beautiful smiling woman, balancing fruit atop her head.

This, for whatever reason, embarrassed this tiny night owl to no end, and she would blush, and laugh, and squeal. Maybe she was embarrassed on his behalf, since he could never seem to get it right. Maybe she was embarrassed that he was a big goof. But listening to her belly laughs was the moment he waited for all day.

No, there was no getting this night owl to bed now. Not with this much energy and a case of the little-girl-giggles. And sure, his wife, who was muffling giggles of her own in the hall, would likely chastise him for getting her, "all riled up at bedtime," but damned if it wasn't worth every second of the laughter. And yes, it was also worth every second of the resulting hour of calming techniques they used to get her to bed. This is what he lived for.