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It’s a warm summer night, and the day has been long. Play dates, splash pads, dining out, oh my! I’m just about ready to put my feet up and relax, when my husband gives me “that look”.
Oh no, I think to myself. Not tonight.
Sensing my hesitation, he raises his eyebrows and nods solemnly. “Yes”, he says before I can turn away. “You can’t avoid it tonight. Come on, Lena, no excuses.” I flinch. “It’s your turn to put the boys to bed.”
Ugh! Bedtime at my house is the worst. thing. ever. Sometimes it’s cute – tiny feet padding into our room after lights out; a tiny figure climbing onto our bed. But it’s endearing for about five minutes… and then the screaming begins.
“Get back to bed!”
“No more water! Time to sleep!”
“I’ve already read three stories! Go to bed!”
“Stop fighting! You’re supposed to be sleeping!”
(Captioned Above: “Can’t trust my boys to actually go to bed. Found Ryder sitting in a bucket reading a book to Reid, who somehow got his hands on two cookies – WTH?”)
I could go on, but I won’t. I’m not sure why my boys are so opposed to bedtime – to tell the truth, if this is foreshadowing into their teen years for curfews, I am downright terrified. But even though I hate the ongoing fight, I really do have their best interests at heart. …