Life is a Stage, Bedtime an Unwanted Intermission

Since the combined disruption of her birthday weekend and daylight savings time, we haven't recovered our fragile bedtime schedule. Lately, we have an hour of shrewd stalling, during which she:
• Gives up a whole day of saved poop in one diaper/potty hybrid blowout that involves elaborate clean-up and praise. We are held hostage by her crap. Someone call Freud.
• Throws fits and melodramas around which creature/book/parent/lighting scheme will be part of bedtime process. It's like hotel staff dealing with J-Lo. Someone call her manager.
• Is disarmingly sweet, wanting a smooch from Dad or "Mama, you forgot to tickle my arm. I miss you." There's no one to call. We're suckered.

The other night, I was in our bedroom with the door open and I could hear the faint strains of singing and activity coming from her room, then finally the loud clapping of plastic on plastic. I walked into the hall to find her dancing, singing (in a whisper), and wearing EVERY ITEM OF DRESS-UP CLOTHING SHE OWNS, including high-heeled plastic mules on her feet AND HANDS. I watched her for two seconds, then she saw me. And began solemnly, silently — quickly — taking off the satin cape, sequined beanie hat/tube top, plastic shoes, and tutu. She crawled into bed and sucked her thumb and said, "Good night, Mom. I'm done now."