We long ago mastered the art of bedtime. I'm proud to say I still have a child that tells me when she's ready to get in her crib and go to sleep. No screaming, no crying, no struggles. Actually, I dare say, bedtime is a pleasure. It's about six hours after bedtime that has me ready to jump off the nearest bridge.
For the past two months or so, Alexis has insisted on announcing she is awake in the middle of the night. It's not every single night, but it's frequently enough to keep me dependent on Starbucks (For the record, I still refuse to pay $4.07 for what I really want and have been settling for a Caramel Macchiato. Why, yes, I am bitter. Thanks for asking.). I don't really mind the waking up part, I mind the screaming bloody murder as if someone is ripping her toenails out one-by-one. I mind even more that I end up getting out of my warm, cozy bed to make sure she isn't actually being clawed to death by a cat or something.
As I stagger the twenty feet between her room and my warm, cozy bed (did I mention that it's warm and cozy?), I'm usually convinced that she really must be dying. There is no other explanation for the intensity of the shrieks. I peer through the doorway and am greeted by:
"Muuuuummmmmmy! Good night!"
Honest to goodness. She puts on airs like she is a prisoner in Abu Ghraib then cheerily tells me good night and flops back down to return to sleep. All she has to do is see the outline of my body. She's back to sleep in under 30 seconds and I'm left wide-awake, wondering what exactly just transpired.
I think this may be some sort of test. What I don't know is whether I'm passing it or failing miserably. I fear the latter.
Also, this is what happens when Daddy is put in charge of nap time:
