Due to scheduling issues, I’ve been the one putting the kids to bed lately. This is not a problem. In fact, I enjoy it. There’s something special about that time when they’re in bed but not quite asleep.

My oldest, though, has started to master the art of the stall.

As soon as I turn out the light, he starts talking. At first, it was just random stuff, but then he discovered that there are certain topics I am less likely to interrupt. I caught on to him, of course, and developed my “that’s nice, see you in the morning” routine to a fine art.

The other night, my wife was home. She took the big guy to bed while I tucked in his little brother. When I came out, I heard the big guy talking earnestly to her about the day’s activity. The light was out and she was standing halfway to the door, listening.

I could tell he was just getting warmed up.

Sneaking behind his bureau, I picked his crocs off the floor, then tossed one high overhead. It arced over my wife and landed on his bed with a thump.

He stopped midword, then sat up. “What was that?” he said. “Did you see that? What was that?”

 I tossed the other one. In the darkness, the navy crocs were practically invisible.

“Ah!” he shouted. “What’s going on?”

“Got you,” I said, herding my wife out of the room. “Now go to bed.”

“Da-ady!” He glared at me. “Really? Really?”

“Good night, chatterbox.”

He gave a frustrated groan and lay back on his bed.

Score one for the daddy.