Pushing his plate away after supper, my husband yawned and sing-songed:

“Now I lay me down to sleep…

I pray my wife will rub my feet…”

I snorted and made an exaggerated smirk:

“and if I don’t, make no mistake…” I frantically searched the rhyming drawers of my brain, but to no avail. Give and take, backache, deep fake, disk brake, bull snake… “OK, you got me. I’ve got nothing!”

He pushed his hands behind his head, gloating in being able to best me on a wordplay. I kept racking my brain furtively for some kind of a reply — but I still had nothing. I am usually really good at thinking on my feet, but right now, if my brains were dynamite, there wouldn’t be a big enough explosion to blow off my hat.

I shrugged and gave my best “whatever” look.

The next night, while getting ready for bed, my husband quietly repeated his “prayer.” Followed by something mumbled about hoping it’s answered this time…

“Maybe you should take a lesson from Garth Brooks and be thankful for unanswered prayers?”

He rolled his eyes at me, and muttered some disparaging remark. But I couldn’t hear him, because my mind was furiously rewriting lyrics. I drifted off to sleep that night while the parody swirled round and round my head:

It wasn’t quite the foot rub, that I had pictured in my dreams

There was no time for ointments, no balms, salves, liniments or creams.

Instead out came the grinder, the belt sander and the Dremel tool

She flashed a wicked grin as I pushed away the footstool!

And as she walked away, I looked at my toes

still tired and sore, callused and achy, but intact I suppose.

Sometimes I’m thankful, for unanswered prayers

just think what might have happened, with my feet in her crosshairs?

So just because my prayers weren’t answered, doesn’t mean she don’t care…

Some of my wife’s greatest gifts — are unanswered prayers.

I always keep a notepad on the nightstand next to the bed, in case inspiration hits in the night. The next morning I was very excited to sing the midnight lyrics to my husband. To say he wasn’t impressed would be an understatement. Regardless, I was quite pleased with myself, and caught myself humming the song jauntily throughout the day. I should have remembered that pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall — but instead I went blissfully throughout the day, feeling like I had come out on top of our word match.

Later that night, after having gotten the last of the bedtime stories, teeth brushing and last minute glasses of water taken care of, I headed to bed — and to my prideful destruction.

The nightstand lamp was on and my husband was sitting at the foot of the bed with a foot sander and lotion. I raised an eyebrow, expecting a second verse that would outdo mine. Instead he smiled with innocent mischief:

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray my wife will rub my feet.

But if she doesn’t it’s OK

Marriage is a give and take.

Her feet are sore, they work all day

I’ll rub hers first, mine can wait.

If this was a Hallmark movie, I would have been moved to tears, picked up the lotion and the credits would have rolled while he finally got his long-awaited foot massage. But this was more of a Robin Williams-style movie — so I pulled off my socks and flopped happily across the bed to enjoy the foot massage he’d been asking for all week. I assuaged the twinge of guilt that kept tickling, by telling myself he’d end up with a nice tub of Working Feet cream in his stocking — better than the coal in mine.

Now as we each lay down to sleep

which spouse will rub the other’s feet?

Which one will ease the other’s stress?

I’d like to say me — but he’s the best. Amen.