To sleep, perchance to dream....

I never let my babies "cry it out" to sleep.

OK, there was that one time when they were only about two weeks old and I read something in some book that said it was OK to let them cry even at that young age.

Big mistake. Lily screamed her head off for 10 minutes before I couldn't take it anymore and went in to try to soothe her. But my poor infant, who barely tipped the scales at 5 pounds, was not soothable that night. She wailed mercilessly for three long hours, despite baby swings, bottles, lullabies, and a stroller ride around the house, before I started sobbing uncontrollably right along with her.

Finally, Fred rescued me, took her out of my arms, and I fell asleep in the bathtub where I retreated, beaten and ashamed, to try to calm my own shattered nerves.

I think that experience marked me for life.

Over the next few months, while all my friends were marveling about how letting their babies cry it out for a few nights or a few weeks until they "got the hang" of soothing themselves to sleep had greatly improved their lives, I could never really do it again.

And so I did all the things most books told me not to. I nursed Jessie to sleep in the rocking chair, I walked back and forth in the house late at night soothing Lily to sleep in my arms while singing her lullabies before gently putting her down in her crib, praying she wouldn't wake up when she hit the mattress.

When they woke in the middle of the night, I even climbed into the cribs with them, curling myself around their little bodies and holding their tiny hands to help them go back to sleep.

It's no wonder that they didn't successfully sleep through the night until they were 18 months old.

They're now nearly six, and each night Fred and I go through the same ritual. We read them books, make up fantastical stories, brush their teeth and hold them close until they drift off to sleep.

We've been doing this for a few years now, and although initially I felt that we should be more tough with them, and that I was missing out on some evening time for me, I've come to really enjoy this part of our routine.

As a working mother, I have precious few hours to spend with them during the weekday, and if I just read them a book or two, said "Goodnight" and shut the door, I'd be missing so much. Like the way Lily grabs my hand and pulls it over to her cheek so that she can feel safe. Or the way Jessie throws her left leg over mine, asks me to rub her tummy and puts the pillow on top of her head to get comfortable.

In a few very short years, I will slowly be replaced as the center of their universe by friends, teachers, or who knows what.

For now, I'm able to experience the sweet pleasure of hearing Lily sing a nonsense song until she lulls herself to sleep. Or have Jessie insist on me finishing a story only to realize after I'm done that she had fallen asleep minutes earlier.

In the middle of the night, more often than not, one of them will call out, "Mommy, I need you!" And I will go lay down with them until they fall back asleep.

So I go to them. And at least for now, I can comfort them and myself, knowing I have the power to make everything all right.

The Bratz Phenomenon

Can we talk Bratz dolls? I cannot adequately express how much I hate these dolls, which to me (a liberal New Yorker who isn't easily shocked) look like streetwalking, low life hookers.

A friend of mine got them for the girls for the holidays and I almost gagged at the outfits. As soon as the girls weren't looking, I threw them out.

Then yesterday I was in a Michael's craft store with the girls and J saw some Bratz craft thing and wanted it. I told her no, that I don't like the Bratz dolls, that I don't like how they dress or that they show their bellies.

"But I think they're cool and I think they look good," my precocious 5-year-old told me.

I'm horrified that already at 5 years old, this is what J thinks is "cool."

If I tried to wear something like that as a teenager, my mother would have sent me to my room for a week. And now you see pre-pubescents parading around like little hookers. It makes me ill.

I'm no prude, but how do we get the genie back in the box and let little girls be little girls again?