Bedtime on North 21st Street

It was the nightly, parental command that we all dreaded as young children:

"Get a drink and go pot!"

Mom uttered this directive at the same time every night without fail. She rarely even glanced up from her knitting. It was like an inner alarm went off in her harried mother's brain. And each of her children immediately stopped their activities to groan aloud, whether they were swinging from light fixtures, coloring on the walls, or beating the daylights out of each other. I don't know why she referred to the toilet as pot, unless that was some fancy Wisconsin word for it. Or maybe there was some other reason. I've long suspected things about that Carole.

Sometimes we'd try to fool her by sitting quietly and watching our fuzzy black and white television. Perhaps she'd forget we were in the room and somehow forget to order us to bed and we could stay up all night! This tactic never, ever worked. Ever. We were pretty dumb kids.

The six of us shared a room - note that Barbara wasn't yet around to screw up the even number of kids. I always shared a double bed with my blanket hog sister, Mary. (Actually, I don't even remember if she hogged the blankets. I just like talking smack about her.) The boys jumped onto their bunk beds and always managed to slug each other before turning in. That's part of twin DNA. Joe and Jeff, I suppose were still wearing diapers. It would be some six years before they learned how to use the pot.

It's funny how contemplating little episodes like this allow for other precious memories to float to the surface. As the oldest of so many kids, I never got a lot of one-on-one time with my parents--none of us did--unless we were in trouble. That's neither good nor bad. It's life with a big family. And for that reason, I especially treasure a soft memory with my mother...I guess I couldn't have been much more than a toddler.

She'd sit beside me, and she taught me how to pray. Even now, the words flow as easily and as reassuringly as they did so many years ago:

"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless Mommy and Daddy, my brothers and sisters, Grandma and Grandpa Haislip, Grandma and Grandpa Meier, Grandma and Grandpa Wade, Grandpa Morgan, all my aunts and uncles, all my little cousins, and all my little friends. Amen."

Even today, I find myself whispering those words in the dark of night when I'm sad or can't sleep, and the prayer's childlike cadence soothes now as it did then.

I like to hope that my own daughters will carry little funny and heartfelt gems like this in their memories as they brave the new world of adulthood. It may be years before they appreciate it, just like it was for me.

Meanwhile, it's bedtime for now. I won't forget to say my prayers.