Last night, Ezra stood on the sofa, arms outstretched for what he calls his Carry. He asked me which one was my bad shoulder, and he settled into my arms for his nightly ride up the stairs. Every night I carry his 62-pound, giraffe-limbed body up the one flight of stairs to his bedroom.

One of these nights – maybe even tonight – will be the last time we do The Carry.

Let's discuss the lie of bedtime.

The tranquil still-life of aGoodnight Moon lie.

The sweet-faced babe nodding off as you close the bedroom door while tiptoeing lie.

The child who moves from the car to the bed without waking up lie.

Because we all know what really happens at bedtime. There are no hushes or whispers or kittens or crickets, and there is nothing tranquil or sweet or still life about it.

When my boys were small, we received a book called Thank You God! A Jewish Child's Book of Prayers from PJ Library. I took one look at it and saw its future – wedged, unread and forgotten, against the side of the bookshelf, its skinny spine hidden by the hulking Lego Star Wars Complete Visual Dictionary.

But, instead of immediately putting it into the "give away" pile, I opened it.