I used to LOVE bedtime. When Baby was an infant, bedtime was simply lovely. She babbled and cooed as we changed her into snuggly pajamas. We read one, maybe two, short books. I quietly nursed her while whispering prayers over her fuzzy, little head. Then I’d place her gently in her crib where she’d drift off to sleep.
Easy and breezy. Calming and peaceful. A perfect way to end the day.
Flash forward to… today.
Today, we chase Baby up the stairs. She runs up and down the hall shedding articles of clothing as she dashes from room to room. Finally we capture her and pin her down on the changing table where we strap on a diaper and zip up some pajamas before she has time to realize where she is. Then it’s down to the floor for approximately 15 minutes of reading/prayers, during which she flops around like a fish out of water. Finally, goodnight hugs and tucking in Bear. We’re almost there. I can see the finish line! But, oh the stalling that goes down! Each day it’s something new. Each night I swear she tacks on another five minutes to the process.
It would be adorable if it weren’t so excruciating.
It would be fantastically fun if it weren’t the last required activity of my day.
By this time of day, I’m tired. I’ve made it through the day in one piece, but, on more days than I care to acknowledge, I’ve barely made it in one piece. And this constantly lengthening bedtime process is the only thing standing between me and my couch.
M, on the other hand, has admirable, infinite patience at bedtime. I don’t know how he does it. He tucks her in after I leave and, I’m not sure if he’s aware of this fact, the tucking in process is getting longer each night too. But he doesn’t mind. He emerges from her room each night, shaking his head and smiling at how much he loves her.
I know that shaking head and smiling feeling. I feel it too. Just not at bedtime.