Bedtime Boundaries

Are they worth it? Naw.

“I suck at bedtime.” I told Clayton after yet another sixty minute bedtime battle.

It doesn’t matter if I’m putting Caroline or Kate down, I bend. One more book? Sure. One more song? Of course. I become their personal DJ, remixing Twinkle Twinkle and Mary Had a Little Lamb into one cohesive rhythm.

With me the girls will need to go potty or need more water or need to, “just tell you one more thing, Mommy.”

I plopped onto our bed and looked at Clayton, who had been out of Caroline’s room for at least 30 minutes. How does he makes it work? How does he get the girls down in an efficient, no-nonsense way?

Boundaries. He didn't have to tell me. I already knew.

He says one book, they read one book. He lays out the plan of rubbing their back and telling them he’ll see them in the morning. The girls know that what he says is what they will get.

But with mom, whole other story.

They know I’m soft as butter, bendable and more malleable the longer they keep me captive in their rooms with snuggles and requests and little beady eyes that make me rock them just a little bit more.

I sit in their rooms fuming, filling my heads with declarations. They need to learn to fall asleep faster. They can’t manipulate me like this. They better pull their shit together before the new baby comes!

I lie defeated on the bed with my long ambitious list of “what I’ll do after bedtime” left for another time.

I vow that tomorrow will be different. I’ll hold the line. I’ll love them and they’ll know what’s up. Mom’s got work to do, and essay’s to write and workouts to pretend to attempt. I have plans for crying out loud!

But then morning will come and I watch them waddle down to breakfast in their dinosaur jammies. They reach up their arms for a morning hug. I pause. They look taller than they did yesterday, sprouting up before my eyes.

My mental vow dissolves.

Maybe I’ll suck at bedtime a little longer.