I have my special, precious rituals as they slip into slumber: quality TV time, imbibe in some sort of relaxant, maybe return some emails, lie in bed and read until I fall asleep (usually about two minutes). At times, I let things slide when it come to our routines. I pick my battles and let them make huge messes if I think they're having fun, for instance, but come bedtime, I turn into Patton. I am all about procedure. Brush your teeth, pee, get in bed, a book. Then you better get to sleep because I have been dreaming about my glass of wine since 1 p.m.

When the girls came along, it quickly became apparent that my husband and I were not on the same page on several child-rearing issues. All the pre-parental arrangements were a load when it came time for the real thing. We were in perfect agreement in theory; practice was hell. After several years of giving it one more try, we recently separated. Like a twelve-step addiction program, it's complicated and ongoing. It's hard to know where I'm at because I'm sitting in it, but some things are straight-up sweet. One sweet thing is not arguing about how we do things around the house, and bedtime is high up, if not top, on the list.

My husband had this sandpaper-on-skin habit of saying, "What's the hurry? They're having fun." He'd been at work all day and had two hours at home with them, tops. The girls and I had been together all…day…long. And my kids are not nappers. It wasn't that he was having his quality time with them in those two hours. Usually he was on the phone or Internet and just didn't want to put them to bed, rebelling against anything that smelled even slightly of regulation. A fight between us about bedtime could pretty much be bet upon more than half the nights of the week.

Why am I such a ball buster about bedtime? I think about it a lot in general lately looking at myself and my fellow mothers. I see such a crazy need for relief, simple relief. I can't tell if it's the times we live in or it's just being a mom in any age, but we're all like basement boilers who need our steam released or we're going to blow and take the whole building with us.

Bedtime is when we can relax. It's often the only "alone" time we get. For many people I know, it's when we indulge in our fat glass of wine or hide in the garage for a hit of pot, all the while feeling guilty, when really why should we? God forbid we show "weakness" or anything less than perfection. After a long day doing for others, it's hard to switch gears and do for ourselves.

I recently talked to a friend of mine on the phone who I have been friends with since before children were even a glimmer of thought. She said some days she had a beer at one in the afternoon and felt guilty about it. Why? I know several people who take Vicodin, prescribed for very real injuries, but they happened years ago. Why? Some people shop, clean, work out at the gym manically. One thing may be technically healthier than another but it's all about one thing: relief. I bow to the people who still get their relief from sex. Lucky, lucky people.

For me, bedtime ritual reflects the stress of the often-unrelenting duties of being a mother. My job is to reward them for good behavior, so where's my reward for good behavior? It's a long day, being with our children. Of course, they are loves, but they are hard work, and these are hard times.

Bedtime is often the only time I lose my temper and get downright bitchy with the kids. I'm done with diplomacy; done with creative problem solving. I find myself begging, literally begging my children to just please go to sleep. There are new Netflix, for god's sake! I will actually attempt to appeal to their logic, as if a three- and six-year old have logic. I'll tell them they need sleep to heal and grow and be healthy, I'll lecture: "Mommy needs time for herself, and I deserve it. You are being disrespectful if you don't give it to me." It sounds like it makes sense when I'm saying it, but they haven't taken logic and critical thinking in college yet. Once, just once, I'd love them to drop off the moment I finish their book.

While pregnant, I read many theories about having the children sleep in bed with me. I decided I would have them with me as babies, although I slept like an amphetamine addict, jumpy and edgy, always dreaming I was accidentally rolling over on them. Ruby hated sleeping with me. As soon as I figured this out and put her in a room with her sister, she slept like a kitten in the sun. I was a little hurt. As they got older, I felt firmly they sleep in their own beds. We bought them cool mini-bunk beds from IKEA to bribe them. My reasoning for autonomy was funny, in retrospect. I thought my husband and I needed our room and bed to ourselves for private romantic time.

Alas, things have changed and after so many years of analyzing, we seem to have fallen into a new routine. We have the usual Gestapo tactics to get them in their room and once they are in bed, it's fair game. They scream, jump, and run around like chickens, and I don't care. There is one rule, and it seems a fair truce: stay in your room. More than three trips out for water or pee or to report a bug, and I blow my lid. Up to that time, I'm cool.

Sometime during the night I hear Ruby's little pattering feet coming down the hall and I scoot over. "Mama, I sleep with you," she whispers. We spoon like little warm beans. I love it. I look at her, I walk down the hall to look ay Izzy and wonder that such little demons can look so incredibly beautiful in their sleep. At the end of each and every day, their beauty amazes me.