Bed time can be bonkers at my house. Depending on how it goes, 8 p.m. can induce a sigh of relaxation or a tear of frustration. There is just no way to know.
But I can always count on various excuses.
I have a stomach ache.
My back really hurts. The latter is thrown out in a sympathetic unison, a sort of homage to their dad's ocassionally sore lumbar region.
Well, what do you think you can do about that? I ask.
They both request heating pads.
Did I give birth to Walter Mathau and Jack Lemon?
Another frequent ailment is the headache. But in this house, it's pronounced Head'ick and can sound a little like haddock.
Fishy.
Tonight, I was nearly reeled in by a couple of well placed lines that would have made me swoon if I didn't know better.
It went like this:
Mom, what are you doing?
D, why aren't you in bed?
You didn't give me a hug.
I stare.
Daddy didn't give me a hug?
I stare again.
But Mo-o--o-m, I just want to say that I LOVE you.
Love you too.
But mom, you're pretty. You look beautiful.
I almost wanted to fall for it. But the sight of my piled up pony-tail and ratty plaid pajamas in a nearby mirror told another story.
Good night, Cassanova.
Nice try.
Ha ha. I remember that nighttime craziness. That's way we invented jammie snacks, food (bribe?) to get them into their pajamas when they were not cooperating. Morning was worse as in being pummelled with reasons, including the stomach ache, we they can't go to school. Joe was the best at it. My favorite was the time he came to my door with his arm raised at the elbow and said, "I broke my arm!"
ReplyDeleteI wasn't in the mood for it. I shouted, "Put that arm down!" He was kind of shocked. Down the arm want, really quickly.