We try really hard for a calm, predictable night time routine. We usually fall miserably short of this seemingly simple goal. As much as I hate to admit, I’m not the warm fuzzy, read a story, sing-a-song-tuck-in Mommy I once was, such long and brief time ago (like, 2 children ago). In fact, with a little truth serum, or a couple of drinks, I’ll tell you that I can’t FLIPPIN’ WAIT for bedtime, and that my husband better darn well take that sweet chore over, because I am DONE. By 7:30 pm, I’ve put in more than 12 hours, and my tattered Mommy Hat is coming off, if I can help it. Besides, he needs that time with the children. It’s for his own good.

But with the lingering holiday shenanigans, little children are extra wired. Grandparents introduce another level of mania, and bedtime just doesn’t get here fast enough. And last night, we let them all watch Shrek on TV, and eat pizza on the coffee table. All the “afterwards, you will go straight to your rooms to get ready for bed if we let you do this” in the solar system doesn’t really produce the desired effect, which we know, but deny, from the get-go. Half and hour past movie time, children are still leaping sofas and skateboarding through the kitchen. I have lost all control. It will take more than one parent in the trenches tonight.

UP THE STAIRS RIGHT NOW OR ELSE begins to put them in the right direction, while I try to figure out what the “else” would be. Toothpaste foams and drips from little mouths, dirty clothes start whizzing through the air, the “where are my jammies” song begins. All gets nearly settled, three warm bodies are in three warm beds, and the stuff starts, with our boys. Speedreader has figured out recently that it is a fantastic ploy to have some on-the-verge-of-adolescence personal crisis that requires private conversation, sometime waaay after he should be asleep. I clearly have “I’m the sucker” tattoed on my forehead, because he pulls it with me, not his Dad, and in my effort to be Sensitive and Aware Mom, I’ve been falling for it. Last night, I bailed, and handed the Sucker baton to Mr. Tango. You do it, I’ve got a five year old with springs in his bum…so off to boy #2’s room. Up, down, up, down, up, down. He seems physically incapable of staying in his bed. Water, book, pee, water, Lego creation, back itches, can you read a story, where’s brother, where’s sister, are you still sane ‘cause I have more…And finally, he is put, with serious threats of real physical damage, and the loss of every single solitary last toy he’s every owned. And even then, he only complies to let me feel I’ve won. But he’s DOWN.

And as I pass the sweet, still room of our only girl, I hear it. The sniffles. Soft chokes. Little whimpers. Oh Holy Cannoli, Now What?!? With all the patience I can muster, and a sip from my glass, I enter with trepidation, and put on Patient Mom. Honey, what on earth is wrong, are you sick? No, she explains. It’s just that, it’s just that, it’s just that we’re Always in the boys’ rooms at night, hanging with them, and not with her! I’m almost delerious as I try to explain how they test, demand, push and attempt to control, while she is so sweet, so yummy in her little nightgown and angelic compliance to just get in her bed and stay there. That we’re not hanging out having a hoe-down, we’re trying desperately not to kill them, and to get them to stay put and SHUT UP (but I said, “be quiet”). And thank you thank you thank you to her and to God that she does not require such machinations, or we’d really jump off a cliff, and as I’m pleading her understanding, I get it. It doesn’t matter at all. She feels left out, punished even, for being good. Yikes. My parents words begin floating around my head. You were could be so exhausting, demanding, insisting on attention, conversation, being dealt with…your sister, just got out of the way, hated the conflicts…was quiet, compliant, easy…we’d be in it with you, and realize later she had slipped out of the room…remember, being quiet doesn’t mean not needing…

With a sudden rush of guilt I’m convinced is only possible in mothers, I announced she was to get her 14 stuffed animals and come with me. We crawled up in my bed, the dog following, and snuggled in tight. I held her close, as she fell asleep, with a smile on her face. That was all she wanted, a little time and touch. And I prayed in the hope that God knew what he was doing when he gave us these children, because it sure feels like there’s not enough to go around sometimes. Not enough hands, feet, or especially brains. And I prayed I would have the ability to serve them all, and they would know they are loved, and treasured. For all their incredible differences.

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