I am a big fan of bedtimes. Big. I love my children, they are my life and reason for breathing, but when 8 pm rolls around it's time to start prepping for bed. Pronto. There is no doubt in my mind that my husband thinks I am a bedtime lunatic Nazi and was a drill sergeant in my past life. Once that clock strikes 8:00 my eyes glaze over, everything comes to a halt and I start barking out bedtime preparation orders to the kids faster than you can say NyQuil. "Let's go, let's go. Move it, move it" is heard throughout the house as I stand in the hallway frantically turning on bathwater while fresh towels and washcloths are flying thru the air. We could be in the middle of a full-on nuclear attack but once that second hand rolls around from 7:59 it is time to hit the sack Jack.
With the speed of a cheetah the kids are bathed, teeth brushed, dressed, hair combed and dried, beds turned down, band aids applied, animals arranged, pillows fluffed, chapstick on, books read and in the bed they go with a quick kiss and hug. Now comes the terrible part. Prayers. Now calm down ... of course we say our prayers but somebody always has to say the long version. "Now I lay me, blah, blah, blah, thank you for keeping me safe, blah, blah, blah, God bless the animals, blah, blah, thank you for the stars, blah, blah, let me have good dreams, blah, blah,blah God bless Mary and Joey and .....". You get the picture. I am standing at the end of the bed giving the wrap it up signal while someone is naming all the creatures in the sea, and the whole time I am thinking ... damn I wish I had a vodka gimlet.
Bedtime prayer cocktails should be allowed in my opinion. If I could safely have a glass of wine while reading books to Annie or listening to Carl read I would stay up all night if they wanted to, but I don't dare. My children have this wonderful gift of telling anyone they come in contact with everything that I do. With a twist. An accidental nudge with a grocery cart into a neighboring car's bumper turns into a vicious shove from their annoyed mother. Or a brief moment of zoning out in Walmart becomes a death stare towards a helpless old lady. No, that cocktail will have to wait until every child on the face of the earth is blessed one by one. I can hear Annie now in her next Sunday School class. "Annie, do you remember to say your prayers each night"? "Yes Sir I do, just as soon as Mommy gets her Jesus drink". Wouldn't that be rich.
In my memories, my mother and I would spend hours saying our prayers and reading Richard Scarry Busytown until I would fall into a peaceful sleep. Poor lady. I bet she pinched herself real good for not hiding those fine print books that require a ridiculous amount of patience and time to read with a small child. Both of those things I am in short supply of at night. One of the best moments in my life was when Carl asked if he could please read to Annie each night; of course I made a big fuss over how great that would be and for him to start right away. Wow, I thought to myself, this is fantastic! And just as I get them all snuggled down in the bed, surrounded by books and fuzzy animals, propped up and ready for Carl to start reading until his little heart is content .... I slowly make my way to the kitchen ..... "Mooommmm. What is this word?" sassafrass
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