Since I work most nights, I don't often get to do the whole "put the kids to bed" thing and sometimes my attempt to run that little circus show makes me feel like an amateur at this whole parenting thing. As I sit here now in the fourteen minutes of quiet I get to enjoy before Evan gets home from Bible study, I find myself wryly smiling as I think back on all the things that happened during my attempt at a bedtime routine that is usually executed with military-like precision.
First Thomas wanted to wear his Thomas the Train PJs. At least, I assumed he wanted to wear his Thomas the Train PJs because those are the PJs that he pulled out his drawer with a flourish before announcing, "Deees!!! Deeees PJs!!!" Imagine his horror when I started to then remove the Curious George shirt with the two gaping holes ripped in the front in an attempt to actually force him to wear the most horrible PJs on the face of the planet, you know....the ones he picked. The tears fell quickly and he threw himself face down on the carpet in protest to such an affront to his dignity. Mothers are such tyrants. Eventually he went to bed wearing the exact same shirt he had worn all day, but I did manage to get him into comfy pants instead of his toddler Levis. I'm gonna call that one a victory right there.
Victory was short-lived after said toddler came to the traumatizing realization that it was not, in fact, his turn to pick the book and that we would NOT be reading Curious George Rides a Bike for the eighth time today. He sobbed and hollered, "George read!!! George read!!! Biiiiiikkkkeeeeee!!!!" the entire time I read the story of the woman washing Jesus' feet with her hair and anointing him with perfume. Apparently Thomas didn't get the memo that this is Holy Week.
As for the older and wiser brothers, their task was to clean up their room after they had gotten their PJs on and instead opted to spend their time whacking each other with swords, pulling on the other one's earlobe, and pretending that pushing the toys off to the side of the room is the same as "cleaning up."
While his brothers were already brushing their teeth, Isaiah was sitting on the floor of his room crying because he had tied a jump rope around his ankles and now he couldn't get free.
Micah seemed to think that "time to pray" is a synonym for "time to twirl Mommy's hair and ramble on about Legos and sniffing butts and asking for stupid things for my birthday." When I reprimanded him and explained that we are talking to God right now and to focus pleaseandthankyou, he starting blowing raspberries and babbling in baby talk. When I stood up and moved on to pray with his big brother, Micah started howling and screaming, "I sooooo coooooollllldddd!!!"
Prayers finally said.
Lullaby (aka "Let it Go" from Frozen) finally sung.
Blankets finally tucked in.
Over an hour later, they are quiet and there is an Oatmeal Stout with my name on it. But what a fun, fun night. My heart is full.
