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.
