Do you Remember bedtime as a kid? I am told that it was a dreaded hour that we tried to ignore in hopes that Mom and Dad would overlook and forget about it. Sources close to my family have told me that they never did, and now I understand why!
Actually, I have been trying very hard to remember when going to bed was something to be dreaded. I cannot seem to find that mentality in my memory banks anywhere. Bedtime is now a word right up there with Paradise, Heaven, Bliss and No Calories. I cannot wait to go to bed each night. And I am doing my level best to instill that attitude in my children. To date, I have failed utterly.
The best attempt so far is to have set a specific bed time. This fluctuates a little with daylight savings time (do not get me started on THAT great idea!), but I have chosen the 8:00 p.m. mark as the ideal goal. However, like so many perfectionistic thoughts and ideas, this too has been smashed upon the rocks of reality.
It is 8:15 p.m. in our house. The children have been laid in their beds with a belly full of water, a story in their ears, a kiss on their lips, a hug on their necks, a tousle on their heads, a “Now I lay me..” said and repeated after me, and all the piggies have been counted, and finally, their tape decks are all playing soft music or bedtime stories, the lights are turned out, the door closed. Mom sighs a very satisfied sigh and decides to….
“Mom!”
Satisfaction blown to bits as child #4 emerges from his snug little cocoon announcing that he cannot sleep. Mom, who still has a little bit of patience left, explains to the child that: A) He has been in bed less than a minute and B) One cannot fall asleep while walking about the house. The boy then puts on his best totally pathetic look and informs me that he cannot sleep because his bed is grumpy!
“Grumpy?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s dus grumpy!” he insists.
I follow him to his room, carrying the brother who followed him out of his room, to behold the grumpy bed. “See?” He points, vindicated, at the mass of bedding that seems to have been mercilessly flung about the room. “It’s dus grumpy and unmaken!”
Heavy sigh. Put child #5 in bed, fluff covers to find missing Nukky, (can’t sleep without it, you know) then tend to the grumpy bed and somewhat less irritable occupant who wants to know why I have not read him Prince Bertram the Bad for the 8017th time. Apparently, 8016 times was not enough. (When they finally get to sleep I silently vow to burn the book.) We repeat the lights out routine again and I tippy-toe toward my room for some time to…
“Mom? Mom are you up here? Mom, I hafta ask you a really ‘portent question,” calls child #2. Through thinly veiled irritation, I tell her I’ll talk to her in the morning.
“But Mom, it’s really, really ‘portent!” she insists. Thinking I could be passing up some really decent mother/daughter interactions, I go to her room.
“What is it, honey?” I ask in my most understanding tone. I have all the books of wisdom open in my head, ready to calm all fears, expound upon great spiritual truths, and share wisdom from the ages.
“Mom? How come your throat feels hot after you throw up?”
Before I can recover from my blank stare and actually answer the girl, child #4 begins to sing from the bottom bunk, to the dog that sleeps on her bed, “This is my commandment that you love one another and you share your pancakes!”
Hearing this, I begin to chuckle, which is the wrong response to #2’s question.
“Mother,” she scolds, “It’s not funny! My throat is hot when I throw up!”
I straighten up and figure I will just go right ahead and give her the medically correct answer. However, about two-thirds of the way through a description of bile, #3 begins quoting more scripture. This time it is her own personalized version of the Ten Commandments, “Thou shall honor the Sabbath and keep it holy and not hold yourself when you hafta go potty…”
Stifling a giggle, I put child #2 on hold while I lean down and suggest to my little preacher that perhaps she should just say a goodnight prayer. Child #2, after hearing what manner of nasty stuff resides in her belly apparently now feels the need to pray her soul to keep one more time, too. Number three volunteers to pray for the lot of us. She chooses the classic, “Our Father”. Good choice! I am proud and impressed! Momentarily.
“Our Father whose art is in heaven, hello be Thy name. My kingdom come, my will be done on earth and in heaven!”
I ask God silently to take this prayer with a grain of salt. We do not want this child’s will to be done, nor should she be presiding over any kingdom that would pose a threat to anyone greater than that of Barbie and a few stuffed animals. We manage to get the lights out one more time when, simultaneously Child #1 and #4 call out, “Mom!” Then it splits into, “Can you come here?” and “He’s out of bed!” respectively.
I repeat the find-the-nukky-in-the-bedding game and get this bite-size child bedded down. Then off to the eldest son’s room for the urgent request.
“What is it?” I ask as I just peek in the room.
“Come in here a minute.”
I am not sure if it’s safe in there, but I enter at his request to not only come in but to have a seat at the foot of his bed. He is hemming and hawing. I ask him what’s on his mind. Finally, he appears ready to ask the mysterious question. I brace myself for a birds-and-bees question or something of an equally sensitive nature which I feel ill-prepared at this point to deal with.
“Mom…” pensive pause…looks at the ground…fiddles with his sheets. The suspense is killing me. “Mom….could you play Monopoly with me?”
I am really trying to keep the sarcastic edge out of my tone of voice as I inquire, “Now? Tonight?”
“Yeah!” he replies, visibly relieved that I have not blown my cool. I glance at the dinner-plate sized clock on his wall, first to use it as a tool in lecturing the child on the idea of 24-hours in a day and that at some point we need to sleep, but the same glance tells me not to waste that time because it’s almost 10:00 p.m. and I had really wanted some time to myself.
“Not tonight, Sweetie.” He accepts that, but then offers his proposal.
“Maybe we could wake up early and we could play then?”
“How early?” I ask.
“Oh, I dunno. Five or six?”
I tell the boy he is crazy and he thinks I am kidding and laughs, and on that happy note I depart to my own room for peace and quiet, too tired to do anything I had previously contemplated. So I just say a prayer or two as I get ready for bed. I move the sleeping newborn over to her corner of the bed and crawl in beside her and thank God for all of my wonderful children.
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| #1 and #6 |
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| #2 and #3 |
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| #4 |
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| #5 |
sooooooooooooo FUNNY and TRUE!!!!
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