Bed Time

It's bedtime at our house. I find myself wishing I were close enough to the garage to run out there and scream without scaring the baby. Or better yet, just hop in the car and drive to the nearest margarita joint. I don't even like margaritas. They give me heartburn. But I'd gladly take an alcohol induced heartburn, that lasted 6 hours, over the nighly routine of putting our three year old to bed.

Tonight we started at 7:30pm. We've been at it an hour. We've read 18 books, we've told 7 stories in bed, we've used harsh tones, taken away a favorite nighttime snuggle bunny and finally, as a last resort, we swatted her on the butt. She laughed in our faces. She brought us to tears and then cocked her head to the side and asked us why we haven't gotten her bedtime milk. At this point, she is in the hall flashing the lights on and off and singing Mary Had a Little Lamb at the top of her lungs. My husband and I are beyond words. We've run out of gentle tones. We've run out of threats. We are near surrender and perhaps simultaneous mental breakdowns. 

And this is when she turns to me and says "oh siwwy goose, you forgot your bedtime hug and kiss." Then she wraps her skinny little arm around my neck for a quick squeeze and puckers her lips and grabs my face with her sticky, sweaty palms and plants one right on my cheek. She goes in for one last hug and tells me she "wuvs" me "berry berry much" and I melt.I pick her up and put her spastic little body into bed for the hundredth and final time for the night. As I walk out I feel warm and fuzzy. If I weren't in shock about how she can go from head spinning exorcist like around her little body to a sweet loving angel, I might be able to come to terms with the fact that she probably just played me like a fidle.  I call her The Tazmanian Princess - The Taz for short (not to her face of course, she won't get that that's funny for years). I'll say my prayers tonight that she doesn't end up a serial killer. Oh Dear God.