The Dreaded Bedtime
Ah, bedtime. It’s a magical time as an adult. When the day is finally over and you can relax and unwind.
My love for bedtime is only equalled by how much I despise it. I wait for it all day with equivalent amounts of anticipation and dread. You see, with a 4-year-old every night is like the first night ever. Brushing teeth (but why do we need to), reading a book (17 minutes to pick out the same one), and saying prayers (lately it’s been God Bless America for some reason) are all part of the hell that is bedtime. This is all before the round of ridiculous questioning begins. Insightful questions like, “why do we have bones?” Never mind the fact that it’s 8:47pm. What better time to need to acquire this knowledge than now, right before bed. It’s enough to drive a sane woman crazy and a sober woman to drink. It’s even harder for a potentially unstable one such as myself (professional diagnosis pending).
As I write this, I hear her humming from the other room. I’m choosing to ignore it. Fighting this fight with a different tactic tonight besides the usual bickering and crying from both parties. Yes, I have hit my knees and cried. She doesn’t care. She’s ruthless.
Should I succeed, I will be rewarded with at least an hour of silent bliss. Red wine all around. Maybe even some banana cream pie. After all, I’ve earned it. I’ve loved her and kept her alive for another day. Yay, Mom.