To be silly.

Nobody wanted to wear the crocodile pajama shirt. It's a crocodile dribbling a basketball; what's not to like? But no.

They weren't just against it, mind you, they were loudly, almost-violently against it. Both girls stared at the shirt like their hearts were splintering at the mere thought of having to wear it to bed.

I felt this hurling sensation that barreled straight from my throat down into my chest, this bottled up, boiling sense of frustration. Violet wanted a pink pajama shirt, or a Lightning McQueen pajama shirt like her sister's, and I knew from the search I had made just a few minutes ago that neither was available. It was foolish of me, really. I knew the crocodile shirt wouldn't fly but it's roomy and soft and has a wide enough neck to fit over Violet's gigantic noggin, and it was the right shirt, darn it. It was.

Try and argue that with a 4-year-old.

It was late. The girls should have been dressed and in their rooms already. We should have been nestled on the bean bags, reading bedtime stories. My mind traveled the short length across the hall into the girls' bedroom, which was strewn with toys and stuffed animals they had dragged in from the playroom. That bottled frustration simmered almost to boiling, and with supreme effort, I unclenched the crocodile shirt from my fist and held it out to Violet. "Just wear the shirt," I said to her in a rush of breath.

"No!" Violet shouted, this ridiculous, wide, desperate look in her eyes. I could see her getting ready to fight this -- the tears were shining in her eyes and her lip carefully formed that downward turn that precedes an epic meltdown. I wanted to shove the thing over her head, let her cry it out, and my mind followed that path a little bit, too, the long, slow recovery from the tears, the nasty pall it would cast over the already-rushed and frazzled evening.

So I said, "Fine. I'll wear it." And I pulled the shirt over my head (told you it was roomy) and somehow wedged my arms into the sleeves, and the thing stretched just to its limits around my shoulders. My arms were immobile, my upper body squished and contorted. I could see my reflection in the bathroom mirror and I looked ridiculous. I looked at the girls, who were grinning at me, little lights shining in their eyes. "I don't think it fits," I said. They giggled at me. I pretended to struggle to get it off. "I think it's stuck," I said. Madeleine laughed loud and Violet continued her giggling as I continued to struggle with the shirt, eventually pulling it off.

Once it was off, Violet's quavery frown was back. "I don't want to wear it," she said again, urgently. "I don't LIKE it!"

Exasperation came flooding back to me. "I don't like it," I said back at her in a high pitched voice, but with a smile so she would know I was kidding.

"I WANT. TO WEAR. LIGHTNING," Violet said, enunciating carefully, forcefully.

"I want. To wear. Lightning," I said back to her in the same voice, smiling and making eye contact with the girls. Madeleine's eyes were bright and happy. "You're just having fun with us!" She said.

"You're just having fun with us!" I copied.

Both girls were laughing and dancing in happy little circles in our tiny bathroom, throwing out things for me to copy in my silly voice, and I felt that tense weight in my chest lighten immeasurably. I had a fleeting second there in the bathroom where I was not so keenly aware of the crushing weight of time, not fleeing ahead of its forceful march (lest I be trampled by it). A recognition that yes, this is how it's supposed to be, and I resolved to find it, that place where time is not the enemy and all you do is make goofy faces at it, and force it into silly pajamas, and laugh and laugh and laugh.