Marcel doesn’t agree with me on many things:
Hair care in general,
the wisdom of putting a coat on right side up,
or in the need for nutritional variation beyond say,
the cheese stick.
Marcel insists that all liquid matter be given equal opportunity
to make it into the ever-widening cracks between the  floorboards.

I can work my way around the hair with a spray bottle,
and use the velcro on the coat when I can’t zipper it upside down.
I can disguise a vitamin  in a gummy drop,
and hand him his own paper towels to mop, but
the buck stops when the boy just won’t go to sleep.

It’s been weeks of negotiating, bribing, pleading, and Mommy pulling her hair.
Charts, hugs, songs, night lights and No baby there are no more imaginary lady bugs
in the sheets (for the fifteenth time) I promise, all accomplish nothing.

Until last night- I did it.
I shut the door, and held it there.
The doctor said it was OK.
But, really my sanity didn’t need an MD.
The sobs were short-lived, when the all-knowing top bunk voice said;
Marcel if you want to come up here with me, it’ll be easy to stop crying. You’ll see.
And he did. He stopped crying, and started climbing.
OK Sammy, I’ll come sleep with you in your bed.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opens.
Little feet come out to the living room to announce;
Mom, I got him to stop crying, and now he’s asleep.
But I don’t know how to get him down!