Bedtime at My House

I would like to take this moment to point out to you that this picture does NOT depict the reality of bedtime in nine out of ten American households. No, I don't have any data to back this up but I cannot believe anyone has it this easy unless they drug their chidren. If you or someone you know of has a child who falls asleep this well, PLEASE tell me your secret. PLEASE.

Here's what bedtime looks like at our house. For those of you who are new or expecting parents, I apologize if this post causes insomnia.

The Scene: Post-dinner time in suburbia. Dad is still at work. Mom and two kids are in the living room hanging out. Mom makes the mistake of trying to check email. Chaos ensues.

I'm on the couch responding to an email. Z and M are playing together. M is behind the folding screen partition in our family room playing peek-a-boo with Z. All is well. Cue ominous music. A few minutes later, it's very quiet and I notice a smell. A strong, chemical smell. I look up and see what appears to be small, hand-shaped grease stains on the red silk partitions lining the expensive folding screen we had shipped all the way from Thailand in 2004. M has apparently found a giant can of WD-40 tucked away behind the screen (which K stupidly left out) and is spraying it all over her hands....while also, I suspect, getting high as a kite from the fumes. Z thankfully is elsewhere.

I yank M into the bathroom to wash her hands repeatedly. The smell of WD-40 is still very strong. I check her eyes to make sure they haven't completely dilated. She seems ok...and, let's face it, I haven't a fucking clue what dilated pupils are supposed to look like vs. normal pupils. I leave for a few seconds to check on Z and open the windows to air out the house. In the 4.5 seconds that I'm gone, M starts yelling. I run in and she has pooped herself and it's running down her legs onto the stepstool, bathroom rug, and into her shoes. Lest I worry this happened as a result of the WD-40 incident, she calmy says, "My went poo-poo in the other room. But now poo-poo want to come out of my pants." I strip her down and put her in the tub and then clean up a shit covered bathroom floor while she frolicks merrily in the water....probably wondering what other benevolent gifts the hands of fate have in store for her tonight. A cookie perhaps? A cartoon?

Not too long after, K gets home and wants to talk about some issues he's having with an employee. M is way amped up by now from the our earlier antics and in full crazy mode. Every time K and I try to talk, she inserts herself (physically, verbally) into the conversation and attempts to divert all focus back to her. When that doesn't work, she starts jumping on the couch, then pretends to fall and cries to be helped, then demands to be held, then harasses Z...all in the hopes that someone will look at her RIGHT NOW Goddamnit!!

Bedtime comes, bedtime goes. Z, bless her angelic little heart, is fast asleep in her crib. Meanwhile, across the hall, almost 1.5 hours after being put down for bed...M is still going strong. In the time it took me type this (not long at all) she has: run up and down the hall, asked repeatedly for a glass of water, said she had to go pee, began throwing books on the floor, sat on her bedroom floor and played with toys.

I have only the vaguest memories of what it was like to be a very young child. But based on what I can recall, I know it felt a lot like being a drunk adult. You know how after a few drinks--before you get rip-roaring, incoherently drunk--you feel pleasant and happy and your tongue loosens up and your inhibitions fly out the window and suddenly walking up to someone you haven't seen in years and commenting on how wrinkled she looks or how her husband made a pass at you the last time you saw them seems like a really great idea? Well that, my friends, is exactly the same state of mind I remember having as a small child. You feel good, you feel happy, and you follow your whims without a care in the world. Why am I bringing this up? Because I'm desperately trying to remind myself that M is NOT out to get me. That her behavior, while incredibly challenging, is not completely off the wall for a three-year old. Right?

(please say yes).