Ah, children’s bedtime. That part of the evening that follows the three hour long Witching Hour and that many a mum looks forward to because … I’m not sure why.
Maybe the lure of the Post Getting Kids Into Bed moment of peace. Right before you crash into an exhausted heap yourself.
We were watching TV. The show we watched finished at precisely bedtime.
“Bedtime,” I say. I’m not sure why I even need to, but I do. I also think it’s become autoomatic. Like I’m on a timer that goes off with a “bedtime” at 8.30 every evening and I have no control over it.
“BEDTIME,” I say again, because I’m totally ignored. I don’t even have a snooze button. I wished I had a snooze button. I could use a good snooze.
“Guys, come on. Do we have to do this?” I ask.
The afford me a look, but not much beyond that. Had it not been for the three-year-old who’d crashed only moments ago along the length of my body, I might have been somewhat more active. And loud.
Something I’ve always prided myself on is what I like to refer to as The Power Of One.
Since Monkey Boy was little and I learnt the benefits of I’ll Count To Three, I relished in delight at the immediate response I received upon firmly saying that single word, “ONE!”
Oh, how they would scurry and do what I asked, or,