The Never Ending Battle

It has been said that one should "let sleeping dogs lie". This is sound advise, however, it fails to explain just how to get the dogs lying and sleeping in the first place. Getting my two wiggly giggly girls into bed is a losing battle that begins shortly after dinner, and carries on through the entire evening, leaving me exhausted from the sheer amount of arguing, threatening and screaming that it involves.

When they were yet quite small, it didn't seem as taxing. I would put them into bed, they would cry, and sometimes come wandering back out, at which point, I would take them back. At the very least, it was a simple game.

As they got older, it became more and more complicated. They have mastered the technique of making excuses for post-poning bedtime, and for getting out of bed once that I've gotten them there. And somehow, they have honed in on just what to say in order to give their excuses just enough legitimacy, to keep me from bodily forcing them into the bed and duct taping them to the mattress. Their creativity in this department is within the realm of prodigy.

Every night, shortly after dinner, I make the announcement, in my stern and commanding voice, that it is time to get ready for bed. As scripted, my darling daughters begin with their opening arguments.

"But DAD! It's only six-thirty! Bedtime is at eight-thirty! Why do we have to start getting ready now?"

I give my standard reply, "Bed time IS at eight-thirty, but I know that it will take at least two hours to get you monkeys ready and calmed down! In fact! We might be hard pressed to actually make the eight-thirty deadline. This argument we are having now, usually takes at least twenty-five minutes to complete!"

Once this argument has run it's course, we begin the slow and painful process of getting them into pajamas. This alone can take up to forty five minutes and usually sounds something like this:

"I can't find any clean pajamas.......I don't like this pair......Natalie is wearing my pajama bottoms.......... but they don't fit Hannah anymore and mom said they were now mine.......this pair makes me itch ......... that pair always smells like cauliflower".

And all the while, I am firing back responses in the name of bedtime progress:

"Did you look in your drawer ......... You don't have to like them ............ Your butt quit fitting in that pair two years ago, they barely fit Natalie ....... wear them and scratch wherever they itch .......... then put on the pair that you say always smells like lemons ...... GO TO BED NAKED FOR ALL I CARE!!!!!"

Finally, the pajamas have been put on. My wife, sensing my growing irritation and fatigue, usually jumps in about now to give me a short break from the nightly fray. On this particular evening she orders them:

"Go wash your teeth and brush your face."

Now she's gone and done it. What would seem to most people as a simple slip of the tongue, will now add at least twenty minutes onto the nightly routine. The peanut gallery, quick to take advantage of such a folly, starts up with their predictable silliness:

"HA HA HA! ... Mom said wash your teeth and brush my face! ... Giggle giggle! ..... OK MOM, I'M BRUSHING MY FACE! .... HA HA .... HEY MOM, WANT ME TO FLUSH MY BUTT AND WIPE THE TOILET? ....... HEE HEEE!" and so on.

I do my best to put out this fire of additional delay, "Alright, it wasn't all that funny.... Let's settle down...... That's enough butt and toilet talk, Natalie! ..... C'mon girls get it under control."

Once they have finally been pajama'd and tooth brushed, it is time to try and actually get them into their beds. Knowing that it was now this time, they both scatter, as if the crack of a pistol had signaled the start of a race. Natalie runs to find her blanky . . Hannah wants a book to read . .. "where's the cat?, I always take the cat to bed ... Momma didn't give me a hug."

Doing my best to keep them heading in the direction of bed, I begin to feel like a soccer player chasing two little girl soccer balls. Trying in vain to keep kicking them towards the goal. But even the great Pele never had to deal with two soccer balls at once. Within a half an hour or so, I finally kick two goals and they are now in bed. But there is little relief in this fact.

I then head back downstairs to my recliner where I await the next phase of sleep avoidance by the two bouncy soccer balls. This comes in the form of an endless parade of trips back downstairs.

(Footsteps coming downstairs)

"I forgot my drink"

"You have exactly three seconds to get your drink and get back in bed!"

(Footsteps coming downstairs)

"Natalie won't lie with her butt flat on the bed because she's afraid that someone might be hiding under the bed with a gun and she doesn't want to get shot in the butt."

"Tell Natalie that she is being ridiculous. There is nobody with a gun hiding under the bed. It would be way to hard to aim a gun in that little of a space and if there is someone hiding in the room with a gun, they are probably in the closet."

(Footsteps coming downstairs)

(Sobbing)" The cat bit my nose."

"What was dad's rule for kissing the cat goodnight?"

"You said never give her a kiss goodnight when her eyes are big and her ears are flat, but her eyes weren't big, she just had flat ears!"

"Ok, Now we know that we don't kiss the cat goodnight if either her ears are flat OR her eyes are big. Get a band aid and go to bed".

Sometime around midnight, the footsteps stop coming down the stairs. I now have a few precious moments relax, maybe even take a short nap. The girls have to be ready for school at seven o'clock, and in order to make this deadline, we have to begin waking them up at about three o'clock. Just in time to start "The Never Ending Battle" morning shift.