Lullabye. And Goodnight.

It's Friday night. Y and I are going to sleep early. Like at 8:30. It's been a busy week, neither of us has slept much, and all we want out of this weekend is - exactly that.

But it's 8:30. It's hard to actually fall asleep at 8:30. We're awake.

Y: "Can you sing me to sleep?"

M: "Are you kidding? No. No. I have two babies, I just sang two boys to sleep. I don't need a third. Leeeme alone."

Y, thinking this is funny: "Pleeease? Just one song?"

M: "No. Too tired. And also? NO. Good. Night."

Y: "But I can't fall asleeeeeeep."

Me: "You sound 2. I know, why don't you sing me a song."

Stupid. STUPID STUPID STUPID.

Immediately, I know what I've done. How dumb I've been, how unforgivably reckless. But before the words "BUT NOT PIANO MAN OR AMERICAN PIE!" fully escape my mouth, my ears are met with a loud, characteristically off-key, all too familiar:

"IT'S 9-O'CLOCK ON A SATURDAY!"

"Stop it. Y, I am begging you. I will never fall asleep now. Please, not this song. Not this song, and not 'American Pie'...they'll be in my head all night. And while you're singing them. Please. Stop. Have mercy. I'm humbled. I'll sing. K? I'm begging you."

"THE REGULAR CROWD SHUFFLES IN..."

"You know, just because you know every single word to a song does NOT make it an enjoyable song and MOST CERTAINLY does not make you sound like the original singer..."

"THERE'S AN OLD MAN SITTING NEXT TO ME..."

"You really think you sound like an angel, don't you."

Grin. "MAKING LOOOOVE TO HIS TONIC AND GIN!"

"I can't. I can't cope. This is abuse of some sort. The octave spike - that surely qualifies as some sort of spousal abuse."

Wider grin. "HE SAYS SON! WON'T YOU SING ME - A MELODY!"

"You know, in a court of law. I'll get the children. They almost always give them to the mother. And if I tape this, there won't even be a custody battle."

"I'M NOT REALLY SURE HOW IT GOES..."

"If I had a nickel for every time you mutilated poor Billy Joel, I'd have TEN houses by now. So long, apartment after apartment. So long, perpetually-defunct, management-provided microwave. We'd be loaded. We'd have a crazy, chrome, off the hook microwave."

"BUT IT'S SAD AND IT'S SWEET AND I KNEW IT COMPLETE WHENIWOREAYOUNGERMAN'SCLOTHES! (ALTOGETHER NOW,) LA, DA DA, DA DADA..."

At this point, I roll over and begin replaying the week, minute by minute, in my head, complete with any and all conversations I'd had, in a desperate - but not entirely unsuccessful - attempt to drown out Y's careless genocide of the classics. I'm not that big on old Billy to begin with.

I'm brought back to the present, however, at:

"MAN! I BELIEVE! THIS IS KILLING ME!"

Because then?

Nothing. Silence. No fade-out, no indication that the next line wouldn't be as loud, as dramatically emphatic as the last. Sudden silence.

I count to ten, still lying with my back to Y. And then I hear it.

SNORE.

"Y? Did you just sing yourself to sleep?" I am positively gleeful with disbelief.

Nothing. So I shove him.

"Y!"

"Hrmph?"

"Did you just sing yourself to sleep? Ohmygosh you totally just sang yourself to sleep!" I'm in a fit of laughter now, thrilled at the outcome of 8:30-to-bed.

I mean, how often does a wife get THIS to use, in a court of - the world?

Grumble. "Did I?" He's sleeping soundly now. I'm wide awake.

But so very, very happy.

And to think, all this time we've said that Ariel takes after me.