Bedtime in my house is a huge, old never-ending pain in my ass. I keep hoping and praying that we’ll FINALLY turn the corner where my kids realize that, holy shit, sleeping actually kinda rocks!! But, sadly, we haven’t even come close to that point in our journey together. Thank God for a rare comedic moment every now and again like my son’s paper airplane surprise the other night, or else I’d truly be putting Gunnery Sergeant Hartman in charge of the nighttime routine around here.
So last week, my husband was out of town, and my lovely little offspring were in rare form once the sun went down for the day (which thanks to jackass Daylight Savings Time is WAY earlier than it ever should go down). By the time dinner and homework and showers and story reading were finally complete, all I wanted to do was to be left the hell alone for just a teensy tiny bit. My kids, however, must not have gotten the memo. Their main mission in life, it seemed, was to bug the living tar out of the poor woman who was kind enough to bring them into this big, wide world in the first place.
Just when I dared to think that peace had, in fact, come to stay for the night, a symphony of footsteps would play out right over the top of my friggin’ head. So up and down the stairs I marched, shelling threats out with each miserable step that I took. My buttons had been far more than just pushed, and I was *this* close to grounding the little devils for the rest of eternity. I plopped onto the couch and crossed my fingers that some “me” time would surely come my way. And that’s just about the time when I was hit smack dab in the ear with this little heartfelt gesture:
Turns out that my son’s recent infatuation with paper airplanes decided to fly its merry way straight into this grumpy ol’ mama’s heart. Call me a pushover if you will, but it was kinda hard to continue to be mad when hit over the head with those three little words….