Good Night John Boy

Our bedtime routine is pretty good. Usually.

Most nights, Olivia and I sit down to rock around 7:30 and she’s asleep by 7:45. School has worn her out these past few weeks and she’s whining by 7:00 and full on clinging to me by 7:30.

Then, at 8:30, Alyssa and I head upstairs, where I tuck her and O into bed and then lay in the other bed in the same room as A and I whisper “I love yous” back and forth.

After ten or so minutes, she tells me she’s going to close her eyes and try to sleep now and three minutes later, she’s asleep.

Usually.

Last night I was irritable. I was tired. I didn’t want the bedtime routine to take forever.

And what happened? It took freaking forever! Olivia didn’t fall asleep like she usually does. Instead, at 8:30, the three of us headed upstairs. Olivia wanted her back scratched. Alyssa wanted to hold my hand. It’s hard to lay in bed, scratching one back and holding a hand and still be comfortable.

Olivia kept twisting and turning and fidgeting and just being annoying. It’s REALLY hard to scratch a wriggly back.

Alyssa whispered, “I love you.” She whispered this at least twenty times. Then, after the ‘I love you’ came the ‘See you in the morning.’ Which is always followed by ‘sweet dreams’.

Yes, it’s all lovely and good. Except that it requires interaction from me and sometimes I just don’t want to interact. Sometimes I just want to go to sleep. But sleep must be delayed as I have to return the ‘I love you’ and the ‘see you in the morning’ and the ‘sweet dreams.’ And I do love them and I’m glad I’ll see them in the morning and I do hope they have sweet dreams.

But on some nights, I just want them to go to sleep. I long for those times when I can tuck them into bed and LEAVE THE ROOM. We’ve never had that. And I know it’s my fault and I should stop bitching about a situation I created but, GR ARG, there are some nights when it’s so frustrating. Yes, most nights I’m not tired and grouchy and I’m glad to have these moments.

Which is why I don’t really want them to go away. Which is also why I reserve the right to cling to these routines one day, basking in our closeness and then bitch and moan about them the next when I’m tired and annoyed by life itself.

I try not to let my frustration show because I don’t want them to think they’re bothering me. Because they’re not. It’s not them. It’s me, being a grouchy-gus. And I need to work on that, on me, rather than work on changing the habits I helped my girls create.

Nights like last night make me wonder if Mama and Daddy Walton ever got frustrated with the “Good night John Boy, good night Sue Ellen, good night, Elizabeth, good night Jim Bob…” routine. Ahh, probably not, I think they were better parents than I am. I take comfort that fictional parents are probably better than most of us real parents anyway.