My family has many bedtime rituals.

At 8:15 p.m., for instance, we put our 2-year-old son to bed.

As a prelude, we read and analyze the classic work of literature "Llama, Llama, Mad at Mama."

Then, my wife or I lie on the floor beside his bed and sing his favorite songs: "Jesus Loves Me," "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."

There are two, baby-approved versions of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." "Daddy, sing little ball game," means I have to sing it in a falsetto voice like the Bee Gees. When he asks for "big ball game," I have to sing it with a booming bass voice like Johnny Cash.

Next, at 8:30 p.m., I put my 7-year-old son to bed. Before I leave the room, I prop his closet door open at a 45-degree angle to let a little light into the room. I also have to keep the open door to the adjoining TV room so he can cheat the sandman. I allow this because he falls asleep in four minutes anyway.

At 9 p.m., I cover myself up on the couch and toggle the remote between HGTV and the NFL Network. Falsetto, then bass. Like father, like baby.

I accidentally fall asleep each night precisely at 10 p.m.

At 11 p.m., I drag myself off the couch and wake up my 7-year-old so he can empty his bladder. I guide him from his bed to the bathroom by the shoulders. Actually, we stagger there together like two drunks in a conga line.

Once in the bathroom, I have to point him firmly toward the toilet and hold him in place. Otherwise, he will spin around like an oscillating lawn sprinkler.

Meanwhile, my wife is downstairs ironing clothes and secretly watching "Remember the Titans" for the 435th time, or "Good Will Hunting" for the 869th time.

I say, "night, baby," as I pass her on my way to the master bedroom at 11:05.

"Night," she says. "Did you remember to take the boy to the bathroom?"

"Yep," I say.

At precisely 12:30 a.m., my youngest son shouts into the baby monitor: "Daddy, come get me."

I stumble back to his bedroom and gather him up. Half asleep, I take two steps toward the door before remembering to turn back to get his "lovey," a monogrammed cloth diaper that has become his security blanket.

By the time I close my eyes again at 12:35 p.m. I have put myself to sleep three times and each boy twice. All night, the baby spins around like a compass needle in search of north, kicking me in the stomach every 15 minutes.

I'm almost eight years into fatherhood, and I don't remember what a full night's sleep feels like.

And, frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.