Bedtime for my daughter is sacred. I fiercely guard it with an intensity not unlike the way the neighbors black cat guards that gopher hole. If I’m honest, the whole of our evenings are often orchestrated around making sure bedtime happens on queue. It’s been this way since the day we brought her home and I realized that I would never have my old life back again. Gone were the days of predictable routine, not to mention the predictability of a daily shower! I realized that if I was going to keep a shred of my sanity, I had to carve out space in the evenings for adult-only interaction (which often meant a raucous game of foosball). Don’t think it was easy. This was a battle of wills for the ages. It was a hard-won victory for this compliant, people-pleasing woman who now bore the title of mama. And when my 7-month old, strong-willed daughter was in bed, asleep, by 8:00 each evening, that title was well-earned.
But there is a chink in my armor. It first showed up when the darling learned how to wield a hair-brush and turned it to my head. The bliss of that magical moment of mutual satisfaction wherein she, believing I was doing her a favor, brushed and braided and clipped and brushed and twisted and brushed while I sat on the carpet and allowed the game to go on and on. Once strong and unyielding, I now give little notice to that pesky minute hand inching ever closer to zero hour. She was brushing my hair, and I was in heaven. It took every bit of conviction I could muster to finally utter the words neither one of us wanted to hear “bedtime.”
I have spawned a sprite who uses her powers to subdue the most stringent of bedtime ambassadors. I am putty in her sticky little fingers. Like Superman and kryptonite or Samson with a haircut I am rendered powerless at the first tickle of the bristles. It’s a spell she uses frugally. Perhaps even in her youth she recognizes that with power comes responsibility…
Who am I kidding; she could totally get away with it every night if she wanted.