I hated bedtime as a child. I would avoid it as long as I could. I was never tired at 8:30. Of course, now I would love it if I could go to bed at 8:30. I’d say “so long, suckas!” to the kids and head off to dream land. It would be bliss.
Instead, 8:30 is get-ready-for-bed time at my house. It involves imploring the children to please put on their pajamas, please brush their teeth, please get in bed, please turn off the light and please, please stop pretending you are German and do not understand what I’m saying.
Tonight began with the typical struggle for bedtime, but things seemed to calm down enough for them to fall asleep. Or so I thought. When I went to check on my daughter, I found her blanket was over her head. I pulled it down, and she started screaming bloody murder. In turn, that made me scream bloody murder. It was just an instinct. I didn’t really think she was going to kill me. But it really scared me. She thought it was hilarious. I hate being “gotten.”
I know this is going to lead to another bad night of sleep for me. Lately I’ve been having dreams in which I attack people with objects such as frosting spreaders and 2x4s. It’s quite disturbing (especially for my victims). It gets me so worked up that it’s almost better not to sleep. I’m thinking about starting a Red Bull and Ritalin addiction. You can never be too safe.
The Fretful Mother's Blog 
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