That's what she calls her bed.

She squeals when she slides her feet down the length of the chilly sheets and then holds court as each of her 9 animals requests permission to enter Yummyville.

It's a lengthy process: Sometimes otter flips his tail in her face and donkey has a nasty habit of hee-hawing loudly in her ear.

They don't all make the cut.

Special blankie, one of four muslins that preceded her, is always last. One touch dissolves any cares--from cartwheel troubles to the inconsistencies of the "ough" words--that she may be harboring.

Then there's a story (complete with Q&A), a song, a prayer, a battery of kisses (forehead, Eskimo, butterfly), and an exchange of silly farewells.

A drawn-out ritual that plays out in ways probably more similar than different in homes all the world over.

And one that I'll indulge in as long as I'm allowed to.