I let Craig handle last night's round of "Whack-a- Mole" (bedtime) and settled into the couch at 7:45. It's like my victory lap -- that couch settling.
Day is done, gone the son, gone the girls and the the fights and the whiiiiines. All is calm -- Bravo ooooon -- sleep is nigh....
One of the myriad problems with this parenting gig is that they save the hardest part for last. BEDTIME. Bedtime should be in the morning -- when we're fresh and kind and sweet -- and decent parenting still seems like a very real possibility. But no, the hardest parts -- dinner and baths and bedtime -- arrive at the end of the day, when we have nothing left. When the truth is, we are counting the minutes. Counting the moments until no one is the boss of us anymore. Until we can sink into that couch, book, Internet, or glass of wine -- whatever our victory lap includes.
It doesn't help that in our mommy minds, we have this idea that bedtime is supposed to be the most peaceful, loving time of day. That we are supposed to send our lovies off to dream land with songs, stories, soft, sweet voices and strokes of their cherubic heads. Sometimes bedtime happens this way for us. Not often.
Each of our kids gets a story at bedtime. They never pick a good one, they pick the longest one.
And the little one wants to "help read" her book. So, let's see. It takes her about six minutes to sound out each word, and so if the book is one hundred words, well, I don't specialize in math but I am telling you that I am stuck in that room FOREVER. It feels like I will be reading that book with Amma until I die. And I know I'm supposed to be supporting her reading. I mean it's good -- this is good stuff, this wanting to read. I was a reading teacher, I know this is GOOD stuff about which I am supposed to be excited. But for me, exhaustion trumps excitement every single time. And I can't help but notice that the ONLY TIME SHE CARES THIS MUCH ABOUT READING IT HERSELF IS AT BEDTIME. When she can hold me hostage and stay up six minutes later with every sounded-out-word. And so while I'm supposed to be thinking sweet thoughts, all I can think is: OH MY GOD. I AM GOING TO DIE. JUST JUMP RIGHT OUT OF MY SKIN. YOU SUCK AT READING. YOU SUCK YOU SUCK YOU SUCK. PLEASE GOD. PLEASE MAKE THIS BOOK..just..just ...DISAPPEAR so I can take my victory lap. I DESERVE MY VICTORY LAP!
But No. Nope. No help from above. So it goes on. And on. "S....o.......soooooooooo t-h- e....tuuuuu---huuuuuu---eeeeeeeeee?" says Amma. I am held hostage for 45 minutes. When she is finally done. I decide that after that debacle there is NO WAY that the universe also expects me to sing the "song" that is also part of her "bedtime routine." I say goodnight and pray she'll forget.
But they never forget. They pretend to forget ONLY so that they have another excuse to pop out of their rooms and remind you of what you forgot.
So three minutes later, when I think I'm in the clear, here comes my littlest mole. "You forgot my song," she says. And I stare at her for a long second and admit to myself two things.
1. She is unbelievably cute and precious and one day I will miss these visits, especially when she starts sneaking out of her room to party with her friends instead of to find me to sing to her.
2. Doesn't matter. I'm going to lose it.
And so I sing her song. But I sing it like an insane person. Eyes wide, teeth clenched, just a little too loud. No sweetness. Like a robot. "You. Are. My. Sun. SHINE. My. Only. Sun. SHINE." I sing it like there are implied curse words between every lyric.
She gets it. She finally goes to sleep. They know when mommy's done. It's not pretty, but it's effective. And often that's the best I can do.
So last night as I waited for Craig to whack the last mole -- I half listened to the bedroom doors re-open and the typical mole-y excuses -- "I can't sleep because my elbow hurts!" "I need ICE COLD water, not reg-a-lar water" "My closet doors are open." "There's an elephant shadow on my window." Whack- Whack-Whack- Whack. Nothing new. The moles are not too creative tonight, I thought. But then, I hear a door open and one appears to say to poor Craig- mallet in hand -- sitting against the wall in the hallway -- "I can't sleep because my finger smells because I keep scratching my bottom."
Hmm. Not bad, I thought, and I giggled, because it's funny when it's not your turn. Craig says, "Okay. Go wash your hand." I hear the water run, hallway waddling, child returns to her room. Two minutes later, door re-opens, child-mole re-appears. "My finger still...." "GO WASH YOUR HAND AGAIN," Craig says with that very even, controlled tone that indicates the Whack -a-Mole machine is about to BUST. Water starts, child- mole slowly creeps back to her room. A minute later, door re-opens. Mole child says, "My finger still..." THEN STOP SCRATCHING YOUR BUTT. AND STOP SMELLING YOUR FINGER! OR PUT IT UNDER YOUR PILLOW. HOLD YOUR BREATH. WHATEVER IT TAKES. JUST GO. TO. SLEEP!
Mole child gets it. She is out of quarters. Daddy's broke. Machine is done for the day.
No more doors open.
Craig comes downstairs.
He joins me with tea and "Mad Men" for our victory lap. He's asleep within 10 minutes.
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" But, I'm still scared of the dark."
This can go on for five ten minutes at least. then when we think we are in the clear we hear a mommy or daddy and again it is all about the dark. Oh, and he has a fish tank with light, nightlight, and tractor flashlight. it really is NOT dark in that room.
My husband is away working in another state; this is my third week adjusting to being a single parent. We get home at 6:00. With dinner, piano practice, cleanup, bath, story and bed, it can take me until 9:30 in constant motion before everyone is in bed.
We have coslept with the baby since she was born. She doesn't fall asleep by herself, but the past two nights she has fallen asleep in the sling while I wipe the counters and vacuum (at 9:30 p.m.). I hate going to bed early even when she is desperately tired because I myself am desperate to remove my contacts and brush my teeth... if I go to bed with her anyway I fall asleep and then wake up at 2:00 a.m. with sticky eyes and unbrushed teeth and every light in the house is still on and the front door is unlocked. I have such huge needs for conscious quiet time that it might be midnight before I get to bed on the nights I don't fall asleep with the baby.
When I was really small, some nights I would lie flat on the floor, peeking under the door and even pushing my face up to the narrow gap with my ear to the ground. I never wanted to miss out on anything! The air moving from one room to another and the hum of home appliances running through the ground occasionally made me fall asleep right there! My parents would then have the joy of waking me in the morning by way of trying to undo/push gently through a virtual 'doorstop' from the other side!
And when I was older I got to be a sometimes enforcer for my obviously tired parents! It was awesome! Some nights I was rigid and would force myself to sit in their room (two sets of bunk beds) on the floor and wouldn't allow a peep. NO MERCY! Other nights there was just alot of whack-a-mole while I sat in the living room, yelling down their requests/excuses like a champion!
And to those mothers of one child who have everything under control -- been there, three kids ago. Trying to get multiple small children to go to bed really *is* whack-a-mole. :)