After the dreaded five minutes (sometimes, I will admit, its more like 3...or 2) I tell my reluctant slumberers "OK, its time to get ready for bed now." In a way its almost like the stages of grief, playing out every night at my place at bedtime: shock and denial, bargaining and anger, depression and guilt... my oldest son has the whole denial thing down pat. He will just sit there coloring away completely ignoring the fact that its time to put on his PJs while his other siblings are experiencing the more vocal forms of bargaining and anger. "But I was going to draw a picture for you, Mom. Because I love you so much." And there we have the guilt. Only its mine.
Eventually they're all in Pajamas and their teeth are cleaned. My three year old likes to "blind me" with his sparkly white teeth and grins a ridiculously huge grin at me as he emerges from the bathroom. I of course am "temporarily blinded" by the flash of dentally clean brilliance in front of me - which it turns out gives just enough time for the 3 year old to run into the toy room and attempt to bury himself in the toybox. Hmmm. Maybe I'll have to tone down the blindness in the future.
After extricating the 3 year old and throwing the toys half heartedly back into the toybox, we settle down enough for prayers. This is where I feel like I sometimes get a glimpse of my kids' budding spiritualities. The oldest, my daughter, kneels (or sometimes sits) very reverently. She piously folds her hands into perfect little points "So the prayers go straight up to God." She bows her head, closes her eyes and concentrates - a true Carmelite in the making. My oldest son settles comfortably in, hands folded, and recites his prayers very meticulously. He then implores God in his own words to help him be holy and get a train of his own someday. He asks God to bless his mommy and daddy and his siblings. Then he asks for help to do his homeschool work better. Ah, my little Benedictine. The 3 year old exuberantly jumps around saying his prayers. More often than not he shouts his prayers very happily while waving his hands up at God. I sense the charismatic renewal may be a part of his life later on. He then proceeds to decide that his clothes are an encumbrance to proper prayer so he removes them and joyously finishes his prayers by declaring, "I love, God, YOU ARE MY FATHER!" Yup, Franciscan all the way. The 1 and 1/2 year old is the wild card - he finally learned to fold his hands and keep them that way for the entirety of a prayer. He loves to shout, "Amen." He also loves to kiss every single picture or statue of the Blessed Mother he sees - so perhaps I have a future Mariologist on my hands.
After prayer time its actually bedtime (all the preliminary fanfare completed) and the battle begins. Actually its more like a war - on two fronts. The older ones are in their room - and after negotiating how many toys they can have in their beds and how many books they can read I get them their respective cups of water and kiss them good night. The second front is the room occupied by the younger two boys. The 3 year old wants the door wide open, the 1 and 1/2 year is gearing up for a night of crib climbing. After saying for the umpteenth time that the door will NOT be opened all the way, and putting the required amount of ice in the water cup the 3 year old seems ready for bed...after he reads some books that is. The 1 and 1/2 year old is a different story. Yes, this is Noah - the star of the earlier post On the Trail of an 18-Month-Old. He has perfected the art of crib climbing. He kisses me very nicely and gives me a mischievous little grin as I place him in his crib. I know I'm in for it. The night is far from over.
After several more trips into the older kid's room asking them to be a little quieter, getting more water, assisting in a bathroom trip after the consumption of said water, and fixing blankets, the oldest of my progeny are ready for slumber. The three year old reads a book or two, asks for more ice and falls asleep without even touching it. Noah - well he is at the top of his game.
I hear little feet running into the living room. "Noah," I say, "Its time for bed." "Poop," he says very seriously, grabbing his diaper. I sigh. This is his own version of crying wolf. Every night he climbs out of his bed and insists that he has soiled himself. Almost every night it is a cleverly constructed ruse to stall the inevitable. Every once in a while, its actually true. One time I was so tired of the his "Crying Poop" that I refused to change him and just kept plopping him back in his bed. Unfortunately some time during the course of that night he actually did do what he said he did and ended up with a raging rash the next day. The guilt from that incident alone compels me to check his diaper now every time - just in case - and even if I just changed him.
He tried this tactic 4 or 5 more times. Then as if he can sense that I am wearying of this battle tactic, he changes his approach. He climbs out of bed and peeks out of his room. He laughs. I look. He smiles his biggest, cutest smile, and runs back into his room. I obligingly go into his room and locate him. In the dim light I can see that he is standing in the corner with his face pressed into the corner - so I can't "see" him. I walk closer. He hears my footsteps and starts fidgeting. I get closer and he can't take the anticipation anymore. He shrieks and laughs and throws himself into my arms. "Noah," I insist, "Its time for bed!" He laughs again and I realize that he has got a lot more antics up his little sleeves. I place him in his crib and exit. As I am closing the door I hear him begin to climb out. I swiftly open the door and hiss, "Get back in bed!" He flops onto his mattress and lays there. I close the door. We repeat this scenario about ten more times before I go into his room, lay him down and cover him with his beloved blanket. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and I think I may have finally succeeded! I quietly close the door and tip toe out to the living room.
I woefully glance at the clock. Its way too late already. As I start to feel sorry for myself two things happen. Noah runs out again, lips puckered, making kissing noises, and my husband walks in the door - finally home from a late night. Dear hubby looks at fish-faced Noah, who now has a 'deer in the headlights' look about him as well, and then he looks at me. Once glance is apparently all he needs to know that I'm done. He scoops up Noah, allows him to give me a few kisses, and then takes him to his room, talking softly. As I watch them go through the doorway I see Noah circle my husband's neck with his arms and give him a big kiss. I smile.
As it turns out, dear hubby had the magic touch tonight. Noah stayed in his bed and eventually drifted off to dreamland. I got some relaxing "grown up time" after all. As I check on the kids before crawling into my own bed, I take a minute to look at each of them. They all look so angelic. So peaceful. So incapable of the bed time mayhem they so routinely create. In those moments though, after I've had a few minutes of not having to be "Mommy" - on call every second - I feel like I see my kids in a refreshed way. I kiss them lightly on their foreheads and adjust the covers. I pray over each of them silently and ask God to help me be a better mommy.
As I climb into my own bed, my mind fresh with the sleeping faces of my children, I completely forget about the bedtime craziness. I am oblivious to the fact that the craziness will likely repeat itself the next day, and I am thankful. Thankful for my children, thankful for my husband, who so often swoops in and saves the day, and thankful that I'm not really a jailer after all.
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