All this, of course, is a cue for the youngest among us to immediately begin fighting every bedtime and, inexplicably, waking up before dawn on some of the darkest mornings of the year. Over at the lovely Standing in the Shadows blog, Sarah Buttenwieser’s preschooler arose at 4:45 one recent morn, leaving her in a state she oh-so-accurately described as being groggily wide awake — too tired to think straight, too wired to go back to sleep. A dangerous fugue, especially this time of year, as you could easily emerge from the fog to find you’ve inadvertently purchased some toxic toy or another.

The solution, of course, is one of the most blessed gifts every bestowed upon humanity — the afternoon nap. No, not for your kids, for you, exhausted parent. True, between cookie-baking and tree-decorating and Charlie Brown-watching and catalog-ordering, your chances of getting that nap are low. But it’s a magical season. A mom can dream, can’t she? Or, perhaps, pray:

Prayer for My Five-Minute Nap

Dear God, I cannot go on. It is four in the afternoon, my morning caffeine high is long gone, and I have hours and hours to go before I manage to get to bed. I am quite certain I could crash to the floor this instant and sleep like a rock for a week. I cannot read one more syllable of Owl Babies to my little  monkey chattering here beside me. I cannot even lift my hand to turn the page. Five minutes, God, and I’ll be a new woman. Please and amen. 

They’re catching especial hatred for having a three-week-old infant with them, with comments along the lines of “who brings a newborn to a corn maze at dusk?” and “those people should not be allowed to procreate,” etc. etc.

It’s not till you read that they also have a preschooler that the story makes more sense — and boy, did it bring back some baaaaad memories.

For about three weeks after the birth of his brother, Firstborn was a child possessed. He wouldn’t play, wouldn’t be read to, refused to watch TV, wouldn’t cuddle, couldn’t nap, just physically could not settle down for one moment of peace.

In dealing with this suddenly crazy child — on top of the feeding, changing, and night-waking with a newborn — Mr. Mommy Prayers and I definitely made some whacked-out decisions.

I remember standing at the bottom of a playground slide one frigid winter Sunday, weeping openly. It had taken us literally the entire day to get out of the house, between one child or the other melting down, or needing to sleep, or be fed, or changed. I was wearing the baby, but it was so cold and he was so still, I was sure he was dead. Meanwhile, his insane brother stood at the top of the slide, refusing to come down, even as the light faded and the temperature dropped. Believe me, if I could have moved my fingers, I would have called 911 to get that kid off that slide.

So take pity on the corn maze family. Probably they woke up exhausted that morning and said, “What the hell are we going to do with these kids all day? Let’s go to the corn maze. That will be fun.”

12 hours later, not fun. At which point they say “f*** it, call 911.” Too bad the cops didn’t interrogate the big brother, because dollars to donuts, he’s the one that made them do it.

That’s right, gente, Mommy Prayers has been translated to Italian. I could not be happier. No, wait, I could be happier. I could be happier if I were reading Le Preghiere delle Mamme on a balcony of Le Sirenuse in Positano. Then I could not be happier.

But even stuck in the under-dusted Mommy Prayers home office from hell, I’m still pretty happy. Mr. Mommy Prayers and I, back when he was only my intended and I was years away from being anyone’s mommy, spent six glorious months in Italy, the memory of which will sustain us both till the day we die.

We were broke, parceling out our small savings 10,000 lire at a time, living in a series of studio sublets (Florence, Rome, Positano, Trevi, Venice) — and absolutely, positively drunk in love with Italy and the Italiani.

Even in our non-childed state, it was a wonder to see how enraptured Italians are with children — theirs, strangers’, any child, any nationality, any time day or night. I will never forget finishing up a lovely and modest dinner one night at 10:30 or so, only to have a family of 15, including toddlers and a babe-in-arms, pile in and take over the joint. (The joke here, if you have not had the fortune of traveling in Italy, is that only foreigners eat before, say, 11 at night. Early bird is 9:30, 10 p.m., maybe.)

Immediately a waiter swept up the baby, to nobody’s consternation, and showed him off  to every other table in the place one by one, before disappearing with him behind the swinging double-doors of the kitchen. That mother ate an entire, dizzyingly delicious meal with not one care for her baby and not one peep out of the little ragazzo.

It’s standard operating procedure in Italy — babies are from heaven, welcomed everywhere at any hour, as much a part of life as al dente pasta, beautiful tailoring, and the Pope.

So the thought of those mothers, those parents, reading Mommy Prayers Italian-style? What can I say? Dio mio.

Ma. How we love her.

She said, “Let’s not get together on Mother’s Day.”

Really?

“Don’t send me anything either.”

Ouch.

She wants to clean out the basement and work in the yard. All of us — well, the 13 of us all living on the same coast — had just gathered for Easter. She doesn’t eat chocolate, doesn’t wear jewelry, doesn’t want any more stuff, even if it’s nice stuff given to her by loving children and grandchildren.

What about flowers, isn’t this why FTD invented the Precious Hearts bouquet?

“Stay home and enjoy your family.” She hung up.

I went downstairs, where my beloved life partner and offspring were slouched over various electronic devices at the kitchen table.

“Let’s not do anything for Mother’s Day, okay?”

Hunhnnnnh?

“I don’t want anyone to spend money on flowers or going out to breakfast.”

The clicky-click of laptop keys.

“I think we should do something together instead. As a family.”

That one got some attention — my guys know the phrase “as a family” usually signals something undesirable — a forced march through the woods or participation in an embarrassing public event like a Sea Shanty sing-along.

“We could work in the yard. Or clean out the basement.”

Mr. Mommy Prayers closed the lid on his netbook. He knows full well that our basement houses nothing but bad karma. “Why don’t we go to the bookstore? Poke around a little, have a coffee.”

I only said yes because it’s this bookstore, which is right next to this bakery. And because, even though I don’t want to spend the money, I do want this. And this. And maybe this…

Happy Mother’s day — whether you spend it with chocolates and diamonds or a rake and scrub bucket. Or a latte and some literature.

So it comes as zero surprise that on top of raising a child, writing, producing and starring in a hit TV comedy, playing Sarah Palin much better than SP can, and doing all the other stuff she does (Oprah!), Tina wrote a book. And that book shot up to No. 1. Again, no shocker.

What’s surprising, in the loveliest kind of way, is that Queen Tina loved Mommy Prayers so much that she wrote one of her own — Prayer for a Daughter.

Doesn’t that sound exactly like an entry from Mommy Prayers, only for the next generation? (An idea, by the way, that only about 900 people have suggested to me for a Mommy Prayers sequel.) Such a touching homage. Imagine the depths of my gratitude knowing that Tina Fey is aping my book.

Except, of course, she’s not. At least, I have no reason to think she’s ever seen Mommy Prayers in her life. I cannot tell a lie: if someone less famous did this, I’d be the teensiest bit put out — like, holla, girl, get your own ideas for parenting humor, I got this one covered already.

But it’s Tina Fey and that makes it all different. So I’ll just sit here quietly, with my little book, and bask in the reflected glow of All That Is Tina. You know what they say, Great minds think alike!

But not that sorry — because I remember what it’s like when every day is a “snow day” — when you’re stuck in the house with a baby or a toddler or a preschooler, or two or three or four, and there isn’t any school to go to and it just will not stop snowing.

My best girlfriend and I used to laugh at the moms of older kids who’d complain about the endlessness of February school vacation — we’d be like, “Suck it up, whiners, do you forget that this is our lives — figuring out fun and cheap things to fill up day after day after day of frigid temps and ice-covered sidewalks?”

As a mom of little ones, you’re torn between staying home and going stir crazy or going out and nearly killing yourself dealing with all the winter baby gear.

This prayer is for you gals who have been brave enough to venture forth this winter — it’s the true story of the time I almost froze my babies by dragging them out in a full-on blizzard. (P.S. They survived!)

Prayer for the Snowsuit [excerpt]

Dear God,

I admit, maybe it was a little crazy dragging a three-month-old and a three-year-old out into what’s been forecast as an all-day blizzard. But hey, fresh air is good for children, right?

We bundled up, we jumped out of the way of the plows, we made it to our neighbor’s house in one piece, and we had a good long playdate.

But now it’s time to go home, and suddenly it seems easier to summit Mt. Everest than wrestle two overtired kids into snowsuits, boots, hats, mittens, and neck warmers. The baby in particular, Lord, getting him into his snowsuit is like trying to put pantyhose on a starfish.

If you could send him some peaceful vibes — and unstick this zipper — I’d be eternally grateful. Amen.

I’d write something witty, but I’m headed to the couch with a box of bonbons and a pile of books and lady mags. The house looks like a small tornado swept through, but I will be doing no cleaning, cooking or parenting today beyond the minimum necessary to comply with local and state regulations. Other than to offer up Prayer for December 26:

Dear God, Do these religious holidays exhaust you as much as they exhaust us? Are you a mess after Ramadan or in need of a day in bed after Rosh Hashanah? Because it’s December 26, I am utterly beat, and our house looks like a bomb went off in every room.

I’m not complaining, Lord — the Christmas season is just so much magical with children. Playing Santa…singing the old, beautiful Christmas carols with them…watching their eyes widen when we talk about how a baby saved the whole world…

And yet, there is endless cooking and cleaning and shopping and wrapping and mailing and making sure everyone we’ve ever met receives our family photo card, which took me four hours at the computer to get perfect. And there are family dynamics to navigate, already tricky but made far trickier with grandkids in the mix.

Now it’s over, God, for this year at least. I’m feeling deeply grateful, and deeply spent. Thank you for the Christmas season, and thank you that it only comes once a year. Amen.

Then there are the presents you didn’t wrap — the ones your parents, or your in-laws, or your brother, or your spouse’s best friend from grade school, have generously bought and brought for your babies. Think of them as little landmines that can blow up your entire year of careful parenting in one big sparkling shower of inappropriateness.

I’m talking about Grammy giving Nearly Naked Barbie (so pink and pretty!) to your preschool daughter, Uncle toting an ultra-violent (and ultra-plastic) Nerf machine gun for a four-year-old, or your stylin’ and child-free best friend wrapping up black skinny jeans for your little girl who still has a toddler tummy, long may it pudge out over the top of her modest and comfy sweatpants.

‘Tis the season when those closest to you seem to feel all bets are off — your annoying parenting rules are there to be broken with gifts your kids will luvvvvvv and you will haaaaate for all of 2011.

For you, and for them, we offer up some choice excerpts from Prayer for Barbie:

Dear God, well, here she is in all her ponytailed plastic glory, Barbie herself. She of the freakish 36-18-33 body measurements and the Malibu tan and the 10,000 pink accessories sold separately, including tiny stiletto heels that get sucked up by the vacuum in no time flat.

The doll I swore would never darken our doorstep is inside, unpackaged, and currently having her Hot Tub Party House play set assembled, all thanks to my in-laws. So much for that moratorium.

God, I know this is only the beginning of a long struggle with toxic popular culture. Please give me the patience to endure these fads without over-reacting, and please give me the wisdom to know when I should react.

Also the foresight not to vacuum up those expensive accessories. Amen.

First up, Chicago, where the wonderful Brain,Child team, windy city edition, filled the iconic Women and Children First bookstore to overflowing. Hearts and flowers to all who showed up to listen and to read – among  them Beth Kohl, Sara Levine, B.E. Pinkham, and Gale Renee Walden. (And is it shallow of me to note how stylish the mamas of Chicago are? Something told me we weren’t in Boston anymore — there wasn’t a Birkenstock or clog to be spied in the crowd.)

Best of all, some of the writers brought their husbands along, always a happy occurrence in our pro-Dad book. We nodded in all-too-painful recognition when Molly McNett and her man Dan Libman co-read a funny back-and-forth piece on fighting for quality time when both partners work from home.

And we nodded just as hard at Sharla Stewart’s gentle lamentation on how an equal-partners relationship can look and feel awfully 1950’s when mom winds up staying home and dad goes off to make the donuts every day. Been there, done that, sister.

Mommy Prayers: The Book has much material dedicated to the Y-chromosome gang – Prayer for Roughhousing, Prayer for My Husband Out with the Guys, Prayer for Dad Without the Diaper Bag, and, of course, Prayer for Getting Caught In Flagrante.

To honor the dads – the ones who joined us at Chicago and the ones who play such a central role in our children’s lives whether they’re at home or at the office – I offer up a snippet from Prayer for Daddy Coming Through the Door:

Holy God, What time is it? Is it 6:40 yet? Six-forty is when my man walks through that door, and Lord, we cannot wait another minute.

I know I can be hard on my husband sometimes, but the day is so staggeringly long with two little kids, and he’s gone for such a big chunk of it.

Please make sure he knows how much his homecoming means to us. Some nights, the sound of his step on the threshold and the sight of his handsome, tired face is enough to make me cry.

Thank you for bringing him home safe to us every night. And thank you that he remembered the diapers and Goldfish like I asked him to. Amen.

But also because a friend has just had her second baby, which brought back memories of those ticklish early days trying to get the older kid to not just not-kill the baby, but actually like it and welcome it into the family. Hellish.

Nobody captures that tetchy emotional dance better than Catherine Newman in Waiting for Birdy — have you read it? Best new-parenting memoir since Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions. (that’s not my original thought — some lovely blurber said it on the cover of Catherine’s book before I did. But I agree.)

She’s just so spot on about those first hours and days, hiding the precious newborn — which, after all, you worked a long and hard time to conceive, gestate and birth and would now like to cuddle with publicly — from his or her sibling.

In the hospital, Newman hears her three-year-old Ben coming down the hall: “I scrambled to get the baby into her little crib, the way you might, say, hide a bong in the closet, and shoo the smoke out with your hand. Baby? There’s no baby.”

Exactly. The second-born (and third, and fourth, and…) is your little forbidden secret. For awhile anyway.

Those same emotions inspired Prayer for Bringing Our Second Baby Home:

Dear God,

Hoo boy. This is the tough part — well, the emergency C-section was tough, too, but this is tough in a different way. Here we are, walking through the door with beautiful Baby No. 2, and the look on her big brother’s face is enough to make me call for another round of postpartum drugs.

Oh, we’ve talked this all through, but no amount of words can change what’s just happened. He used to be the center of the universe, now he’s just a star — a very very bright star, but now only one of a pair.

As the joke goes, you’d be upset too, if your husband told you he loved you so much he wanted another wife “just like you!”