“Mommy, I can’t sleep.” I never want to hear those words. When you’re the mother of an active three-year-old, you relish any moment of peace you can get. It’s not that you don’t love your child, but when your ears ring each evening after the continuous chatter all day, and you have to replace your shoes monthly because you spend all day chasing the little one to keep them out of mischief, bedtime becomes a haven of tranquility. Tonight, I especially wanted to sleep. After days of shopping, and decorating, and baking and visiting, I was exhausted. As if I hadn’t worn myself out enough with all the holiday preparations, my husband was asked to sing a quartet at the late service last night. It didn’t even start until eleven. And my little one wouldn’t nap if she weren’t at home. She spent the whole service looking for devilry. Once we finally got home and got the little one to bed, we had to get the gifts out under the tree. I’m not one to leave that to the last minute. They’ve been wrapped for days. But bows were missing, and tape had come open. All that had to be fixed. And then the gift for her stocking was missing. It had slipped behind another box. Finally, we were able to go to bed, only to be woken by the little one. “Let’s put on your bedtime music,” I suggested as I get up to tuck her back in. “Christmas music,” she insisted. “Fine.” I put her back to bed, kissed her, and turn back on her music. Then I back into my own bed. I swear I had only been asleep ten minutes when I heard, “Mommy, I still can’t sleep.” I looked at the clock. An hour and a half had passed. She must have slept some. She wouldn’t have stayed in bed that long otherwise. “Maybe lay with us for a little bit to help you relax,” I suggested and moved over for her. She crawled into bed and lay next to me. It almost worked. She started to drift. She had calmed enough I decided to take her back to her own bed. Sleeping with an active three-year-old is like sleeping with an octopus that has to cover the entire bed at once. She never stops moving. I crawled back into my own bed, got comfortable, and heard little feet coming down the hallway. I sighed and waited. Soon she returned to our room, crawling into our bed. “How is Santa going to come if I can’t fall asleep?” She asked. “Maybe if Daddy tucks you in,” I suggested. I elbowed my husband. “Hon, it’s your turn to tuck her in.” He snores in response. “Hon?” I whispered a little louder. “Mommy, don’t wake Daddy,” she chided me. I gave up and took her back to her room. This time, I sat in the rocker with her for a while. She’s really too old for that, but sometimes, you get desperate. She slowly drifted off. I stayed a little longer to make sure she was truly out and put her back in her bed. As I crawled into my bed, my husband hugged me. “Thanks,” he whispers. “Mommy!” my daughter yelled. “It’s Christmas. Santa came!” Groaning, I opened my eyes. It was morning, technically. It was starting to get light. “Merry Christmas.” My husband entered with a large cup of coffee for me. “Thanks.” I smiled. We went down to the tree and opened presents. With each present, our little one grew more and more excited. She tore into the paper as if each gift was the greatest treasure. It wasn’t long before all the packages were opened and the room was a sea of torn paper. I considered a refill on my coffee when my daughter climbed onto my lap. She hugged me. “This is the best Christmas ever. I love you.” It’s a lot of work, but it’s so worth it.