Last night, older daughter got out of bed at around 9:00 and came to the top of the stairs.
"Daddy?" she called down.
Being a complete and total sucker, I arose from my position on the couch and made my way upstairs to see what she wanted.
"What is it, sweetie?"
"Daddy, I can't fall asleep."
This was cute the first time she complained about it six months ago. Ever since that first night, it's become a wearisome part of our nighttime routine.
"Okay, honey," I said, walking her back to the room she shares with younger daughter. "Let's get you back in bed."
I go through my nightly spiel about how it's okay if she can't sleep, that sleep is something that you can't force, that the important thing is to just rest and to keep quiet so that she doesn't wake up her sister. She stares blankly at me and nods complacently, ignoring me completely.
She lays down and I pull her blanket up over her just the way she likes it. She reaches over, picks up one of her books, and opens it up.
"Sweetie," I say calmly, successfully hiding the fact that I want to start yelling wildly, "it's time to go to sleep. This isn't the time to read."
She nods patronizingly. "It's okay, Daddy. It won't take long: I can't read yet."
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