SOMEONE SAVE ME: THE WITCHING HOUR EDITION
Quick question: am I the only one who dreads putting kids to bed? No? Okay, just checking.
What in the name of all that is holy happens to children at dusk? If I didn't know better, I'd swear they were the monster under the bed, some sort of night terror that has manifested itself with exactly one mission in life: induce crippling anxiety for all parental units in as short a time as possible.
Perhaps that's a bit dramatic, but you have to admit - the sinking sun acts like a switch, turning our adorable bundles of joy from good listeners to tantrum-throwing, tear-soaked kids incapable of reason. Or at least that's what happens at my house. You can set your watch by it.
The magic happens at 5:30, usually a few minutes after we leave the children to play while we prepare a deliciously balanced dinner. I'm grating cheese or searing fish the first time I hear it: a screeching sob. "No fighting!" I shout, usually in perfect unison with Mallerie, who's digging for steam-in-the-bag vegetables or rereading the directions I ignored to figure out why I suddenly have six cups of rice.
Everything goes silent. For about ninety seconds. More screeching. More howling. "Heeeeyyy," one the kids whines. Seriously, it's so routine we've learned to distinguish children by the pitch and length of that one word. On and on until the timer for the oven sings.
Dinner is its own beast. If the kids are hungry, really hungry, the meal is quiet and efficient. More often than not, though, I'm telling one of them to face the table while Mallerie is reminding another to chew with their mouth closed. What should take fifteen minutes to consume usually stretches to an hour. And because we're real masochists, we even make them stay at the table until all of us are finished.
Then it's upstairs, where the littles (impossibly) slowly clean up their toys. Every now and then, Mallerie or I will start counting to 3, threatening to throw out toys or ground a child prancing through the mess instead of picking it up.
And of course the kids are filthy. What kid doesn't smell like a gym sock and a hot car by the end of the day? Cue baths. This is actually a blessing, since at least one of the kids is contained for a few minutes. When they all smell like a fruit stand (why is every kid-friendly shampoo produce-inspired?), we roll out the toothpaste and toothbrushes. Scrub, scrub.
My girls are still potty-training, so I make them use the bathroom one more time, then it's off to bed, where we round-robin our way through several more sobs.
"Daddy, sit with me."
"No, baby. You're too big for that."
Tears.
"Daddy, I have to potty."
"No. You just went."
Tears.
"I don't want to go to bed."
"You're tired. The sun is down. Face the wall and be quiet."
Tears.
"Daddy..."
"No talking. I love you. Goodnight."
Tears.
(repeat 3x)
And then, they're quiet. Not asleep, but accepting of the inevitable. Hallelujah. We can breathe easily.
Five minutes later...
"I need Vaseline for my lips," our oldest proclaims, exiting her room.
"Hurry."
Five minutes later...
"Um, I need to go to the bathroom," our oldest proclaims, exiting her room.
"Hurry."
Five minutes later...
The door cracks open.
"I swear, if you come out of that room..."
Door closes.
We hear water running in the bathroom and turn to see the boys' bedroom door ajar. We open the bathroom door to investigate. A child sits on the edge of the bathtub, fully clothed. He falls off and stumbles, trying frantically to derobe in time to convince us he's been on the toilet.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I had to pee."
"And what, you forgot when you saw the bathtub?"
"I guess so."
"Go to bed."
"But I have to pee."
"Hurry up."
"Close the door."
"No. Hurry up."
Tears.
"My God," I exhale, plopping onto the couch. "What went wrong?"
And that's the eternal question, isn't it? Because you've read the articles. You've visited the parent forums.
You do it right.
You listen to the advice.
You establish routines and use verbal cues.
You warn the kids of transitions from play to dinner to baths to bed.
You are consistent in every way.
"Why do they hate bed?" Mallerie asks.
"I don't know...I just don't know."
I can appreciate the irony. I remember fighting naps and resisting sleep. I used to hide books in the frame of my bunk bed so I could read at the window after lights out. I loathed going to bed. I couldn't tell you why. I simply remember that it was a constant battle when I was growing up.
Mallerie nuzzles into my shoulder and I turn on the television. There's nothing on, but we don't care. It's just background, our way of winding down.
Five minutes later...
"Is that the baby?"
"It's your turn."
"Just bring him here. I don't have the energy to fight him, too."
The kids win.
They always win.
We're outnumbered 5 to 2.
But it's fine. The house is quiet. Everyone is asleep.
"Mom..."
