(I guess this is when I’m supposed to apologize for not posting for two months. So…sorry? I guess? Really, I doubt you’ve missed me all that much. So let’s just leave it at, “Hey, long time no see!” and be on with it. Good? Good.)
So I recently decided that I hate bedtime.
Not *my* bedtime; my bedtime is a glorious, wonderful, magical thing that never gets here soon enough.
It’s JR’s bedtime that currently reigns as the object of my uttermost loathing these days.
You see, when Ross puts JR to bed, it takes all of 5 minutes. Brush teeth, put on pajamas, read a book, goodnight. When I’m in charge (despite the fact that I’m MUCH more of a hard-ass than my husband), much gnashing of teeth and rending of garments gets thrown into the process.
Ross claims it’s because JR actually cares when I leave the room, so he does everything he can to draw out the process; he’d rather me be in his room yelling at him than *not* in his room *not* yelling at him.
I’m convinced he’s trying to send me to the looney bin so he can spend his days watching Phineas and Ferb and eating his weight in Clementines with nary a mention of such atrocities as “bathing” and “eating a vegetable” and “getting fresh air.”
But the REALLY crazy thing is, even though I hate bedtime with all that I am–the drudgery! the fighting! the whining! the flopping about on the floor!–the only thing I hate more is when I don’t get to do it. No matter what, I want to be the last person my son talks to before he goes to sleep at night.
Perhaps his looney bin plans are working after all…