Three In the Bed

Twas The Night Before...

 
My son turned one this week. Sigh. Last year he was just this little meatloaf we cuddled and posed with his big sister and our giant bulldog (naturally). I decided it would be nice to throw him a little party. After all, we have birthday parties for his big sister (precedent) plus with his birthday  in the Christmas season, it made sense to tie it in with some holiday cheer for family and friends (two birds, one stone).

It all sounded easy enough at the time. There would be food, drink, family, kids and cake.  I struggled a bit with theme since he  isn’t really crazy for anything aside from his hot sitter. My husband suggested I arrange to have her jump out of a cake. So in between Googling divorce attorneys I Googled some cake ideas and narrowed it down to this sweet Hungry Caterpillar cake or the show stopping Cookie Monster cupcakes. I thought of the oohs and aahs and perhaps a small applause as I bask in the glow of the one candle and my domestic godessness.

  
Of course, I am not @TheNextMartha, but I had myself convinced I could pull this all off. Until I got a call last Friday. Could I start a new job on Monday? Um, sure. Could I start an hour and a half earlier than I presently start? Oh - that depends on whether business casual means pajamas and a pony tail. It doesn't? Hmm. I will try. 

I did try. I somewhat succeeded. The children went feral, my husband went missing (soccer) and I drank enough coffee to throw off the commodities trading for the week.

And now  it is the day before his birthday party and guess what I have done? Zip. Nada. We are out of milk, toilet paper and apparently, dignity. I think my family ate mandarin oranges for supper. Canned mandarin oranges. Our house looks like it was ransacked by gypsies who were seeking refuge from a pack of rabid mongoose who in turn, tracked them to our home and tore it apart trying to find them. Even hot sitter is looking a little weathered (you have to look closely).

Now I am exhausted. Another long day ahead and I wonder what the heck I can pull out of my hat to save the day and leave everyone wondering “How the hell does she do it?” rather than “How old do you think the sitter is?”

 
 

I Hired The Hot Babysitter, But Maybe You Shouldn't

 
In my heroic retelling of my heart wrenching ordeal with "moth babies" in my daughter’s  bed, I mentioned that I had recently hired a rather attractive babysitter. This raised some eyebrows and concerns as to whether this was a good decision. Am I remarkably attractive? Am I unaware of the tendency of men of a certain age, worn down by diaper duty and mid-life muffin-top to take their testosterone for a test drive?  Yes, I am fully aware of all these tendencies and unfortunately, I am no beauty queen.  So why would I take such a gamble? Well, a few reasons which I will outline here so you too can decide if you want to hire the hot babysitter.

Let me start with my own rationale. My husband is from a tiny island in the Caribbean. What it lacks in geographical size, it more than makes up for in spirit and beauty, including a Miss Universe title. So culturally, my husband has grown up around beautiful women in bikinis.  My own mother-in-law puts me to shame in a bikini and not because she is a plastic surgery addict, it is because she was genetically predisposed to beauty.  My new sitter simply could not help her beauty; she was culturally predisposed to it. Ladies, it's a tough pill to swallow, but it's true. Some cultures have the beauty gene. American women are beautiful, but are more widely known for their predisposition to seasonal cupcake creations than say, topless sunbathing. I was born and raised in Canada, making me predisposed to diversity and politeness, so basically she was hired as soon as she walked in the door and thanked me for taking the time to interview her.

Hotness is nothing new to my husband. Now, why he chose to marry someone who is so unsexy it is at times - awkward (who knew there was a wrong way to wear a thong? ) is something we can continue to explore in future posts. For now, let's talk about my new hot-sitter and more importantly, whether it is something you should consider. Here are what I think should be your three main deciding factors.

1. Is She Trying To Be Hot? If there is a distracting amount of cleavage at the interview or she laughs at your husband's golf jokes, take a pass. (There is no such thing as a funny golf joke) No mom needs the stress of someone trying to be hot or the awkward stare when the above-arse tattoo rears its ugly head as she bends over in the low-rise jeans to pick up little Johnny. So "No" on the trying to be hot baby sitter. Next.

2. Are You Hot? This is an important question. You can't have two hotties in the same household or things are going to get crazy. You will spend each day trying to one-up the hot-sitter until one day you find yourself leaving for work wearing a tube top and 4" heels. So just, let it go. Your reign of hotness can continue uncontested, at least in your own household (but if you find yourself staring into the bathroom vanity saying "mirror mirror on the wall who is the fairest mom of all..." I suggest you get therapy.) And most importantly...

3. Are You Secure? Okay, she is not trying to be hot and you are not particularly hot, fine. But, are you truly secure about yourself? Do you scour Oprah magazine for the latest "True Self” quiz? Then maybe take a pass on the hot-sitter. Trust me, it's not easy to handle great beauty at close range, it gives off a glow that can bring on a depression that you weren't aware lay just below the surface. You may spontaneously  burst into tears when she shows up wearing a white dress and tells you how much fun they are going to have finger painting. You may go fetal with her ability to carelessly sweep her tresses up into a sexy tussle using only a crayon to keep it in place. So be sure. Be sure of yourself and ability to handle hotness, because well, it's hot to handle...

So take my advice for what's it is worth.  Hot is not for everybody. But if it’s unaffected and if she is sweet and lovely and  laughs when you tell her that her buns should be bronzed for the world to see, then I think you found a keeper.

Forget Bed Bugs - Ever Heard of Bed Worms?

 
Bed worms? Oh, I bet that got your attention. Let me set the scene because I am sure you are trying to figure out if this is the blog of an animal hoarder who is about to launch into a rambling defense of goats sleeping on the bed.  I maintain what I consider to be an average home.  I have a laundry schedule and an ample supply of disinfecting wipes and floor cleaning devices.  We are your typical family with children and work and dogs and OMG - bed worms.  

Let me start at the beginning. We have a lovely baby sitter who cares for our ten month old son. She recently became a new mother and is the type of unaffected, twenty something beauty that almost certainly went home from the hospital wearing her skinny jeans and a thong.  Yesterday afternoon she greeted me at the door holding a baggie with what appeared to be a tissue inside. “Hi! Did you have a great day? I want to give you this before I forget. I found them on your daughter’s bed.”  Handing me the baggie, she turned and walked away to the living room where a rousing game of peek-a-boo was underway with my son.

Inside the baggie on a tissue were two tiny wriggly worms. I went dizzy with confusion. All I could do was spit out “whu” sounding words:  What? Where? When?” Wuwuwu… “Yes. In-her-bed” she confirmed and carried on about her business as calmly as if she had found crayons on the coffee table. 

Without proper support to balance my reaction level, I did what I most typically do – go straight to panic mode. If I am around you in any crisis situation, you needn’t worry. I have already dialed 911, grabbed a fire extinguisher and started CPR while simultaneously screaming for assistance.

With 911 off the table of options, I do the next best thing by texting my husband and mother-in-law (who is a science/lab person). Both immediately call the house because, well, I texted them 911. (Oh, like you wouldn’t?)

While I am waiting for them I go ahead and get the gasoline can out of the garage because basically I figure we are going to burn the bed and possibly the house and just, like, start over.

My mother in law is the first on the scene because there is nothing a scientific person likes more than a good hypothesis. My husband is a close second because there is nothing he likes more than a good excuse to criticize my housekeeping skills. He would probably also like a good excuse to run away with the babysitter. (Worms your honor, in our daughter’s bed!)

Anyway, looking at the wrigglies they immediately rule out bed bugs, because they are definitely worm-like. So while they are Google image searching away, I continue gathering up sheets and bedding for the big burn and start spray disinfecting anything that is not moving.

About thirty minutes and a microscopic examination later (I swear she has one in the glove box) a scientific conclusion is reached- “Moth Babies.”

 Okay, so the scientific term is not “babies” - it's larvae, but when they first said it,I completely blacked out and fell head first into a bucket of bleach.  They roused me with room deodorizer and decided it was best to simply refer to the larvae as “babies.”

You see, we have had a lot of moths lately. I switched our porch light to one of those energy efficient florescent bulbs and well, they have been to it like a moth to a... well you know. This coupled with my daughter’s desire to open and close the front door, oh, one thousand times a night allowed a few of them to sneak in.

Marry this up with me recently pulling out a wool blanket for the chilly nights and you get moth-babies in the bed. Sigh.

Denied my bed burning, I chose to burn through a half dozen loads of laundry and, after an unmerciful moth culling, all has returned to normal.

No, that is a lie. I am not okay. I have post traumatic crawly thing in the bed disorder and share this with you as a warning – moths are bad news. They breed like rabbits but have much less attractive offspring. Offspring that could end up in your daughter’s bed and cause household upheaval that for one shining moment lets your husband think he finally has cause to turn you over to the authorities and run off with the babysitter. So trust me, wash those wool blankets before you put them on the bed this season.

 

Open Letter to Mom Bloggers

 

Dear Mom Bloggers, 

I hope this letter finds you well and that your family leaves you alone long enough to read this - so go ahead and lock yourself in the bathroom now.

It was a little over a month ago that I set foot in the world of Mom Blogging. I came with no prior knowledge except that it was better than banging out my thoughts on a typewriter and locking them in the attic for the kids to find years after my death.  I can imagine them finding the hidden posts and then sobbing when confronted by the awe-inspiring poetic talent that lived in their midst. They would then languish in the guilt that perhaps if they hadn't been so selfish (feed me) and demanding (clothe me) they may have gotten to know their mother better. Grief stricken, they would turn to their father (who is still living because that's his punishment) and insist that a large shrine be built in my honor where all will come to hear my inspiring essays. My husband is then forced to take all the life insurance money (suck it, new wife) and build said shrine, where he too will weep (no one wants an old broke widower) and wish he had been more supportive so I could have published my thoughts while still living (instead of leaving me with the kids three nights a week to go to soccer). 

Oh I am so sorry, this isn't about me, this letter is all about YOU. I have been reading your posts, following your Tweets and I have so many thoughts they couldn't possibly all fit in your little comment box, so I have written you this letter and I hope you enjoy it. Fair warning, it's a bit cheeky - but also fun,  like getting a Brazilian wax from Betty White.

First of all, your blog site looks amazing. You clearly spend a lot of time and energy on it and it shows. You also make me wonder if we couldn't help unemployment simply by having Microsoft use Mom Bloggers for its help lines. Of course you already know you are a Word Press wizard and your site looks great, which leads me to my next point.

You push people to your site like a drunken carnie at the ball toss. Now come on - let's be honest. I haven't seen this much fighting for a pole position since open auditions for Dancing With The Strippers. (Snookie is voted off first episode) It's understandable, if my site looked like yours I would want it featured in the next issue of Cookie magazine. Of course it's not just how great your site looks it's your posts that keep moms coming back.

You really like to test products. I am starting to think we could do away with animal testing labs given your willingness to try the range of products the marketing gurus send your way. I'll admit that I am a tad jealous. I would be a product whore too if someone would send something to my house other than coupons for duct cleaning.

You also love give aways. It brings out your inner Oprah. “I am giving away VVVIIIBRRAATORS LAAADIES” **Wild Cheering Applause** Don't take offense,  I am just jealous because I am too disorganized to hand out prizes. You would have to come to my house to pick up your prize where it would be waiting out front in a plastic bag. (Unless my husband threw the bag away and then you would stand on my porch feeling awkward while I scream profanities at him).

But this is all an oversimplification of what you do and it  is a lot more than test vibrators and give away skin cream.

You are brave. You share your life stories to help moms through everything from colic to special needs to autism. That is amazing. You are an unsung hero and I am sure there are no shortage of mothers, marriages and ultimately children who have benefited from your candid testimonials. You exemplify the power of the personal.

You are funny. Oh My God, you are funny! I don't know the acronym for "Off My Zoloft Thanks to You" but that sums it up. I want us to hang out and play drinking games.

Which reminds me - you are a lush. Honestly, why your blog isn’t sponsored by Grey Goose or Jackson Triggs is beyond me.

By now there is probably banging on your bathroom door, so I will wrap up.

You are genuinely interesting and creative and have set the bar high. I hope I can keep up.

 Yours truly,

Tina aka Three In The Bed 

Nancy Grace Profiles "Three In The Bed"

 
Nancy Grace is my guilty pleasure. I love to see her all fired up, interrupting her guests, berating her field producers and flashing fuzzy photos of her beloved twins. (psst Nancy, get an iphone) She is John Walsh meets Ann Richards. The trouble is I usually fall asleep watching her and consequently, Nancy haunts my dreams.  The other night I dreamt she did an entire episode from outside my home and I still can't get it out of my head.

Nancy: Tonight, I have my producer outside the home of one Miss Three In The Bed. Kendra, do we have the mother's name yet or just this "screen identity?" 

Kendra: No Nancy, just the screen name so far. We have been asking neighbors all day if anyone here knows the real name of this mother but most have simply replied she seems too "frazzled" to talk much.  Another commented that she often appears "confused" or "disoriented" and makes several trips from the house to the car before actually leaving - coming back out with her purse, sippy cups, backpacks or assorted pieces of clothing.  Several others commented she usually takes the  garbage out in her pajamas and one went so far as to speculate that she doesn't appear to own a bra.

Nancy: I see. What can you observe about the home?

Kendra: Well Nancy,  we can't actually go on the property but we are fortunate enough to be here on garbage day. The recycling bin is full of what appear to be empty frosting containers, wine bottles,  crumpled up to-do lists and a Victoria Secret catalogue with the words "skinny bitches" scribbled across the pages. There are, and again, I am speculating as to what exactly this is, but it appears to be several boxes piled up by the  front door labeled "Goodwill", "I Warned You" and "Skinny Clothes." There is also an "I brake for cookies" bumpersticker on the back of a minivan. 

Nancy: Look - my concern are the children, what have we learned about them? 

Kendra: Again Nancy, not too much. According to neighbors, the children spend a lot of time outdoors, unsupervised and unclothed. When asked one neighbor asked the little girl where her shoes were, she  simply replied "Yo Gabba Gabba."

Nancy: "Yo Gabba Gabba?" What the heck does that mean?

Kendra: We don't know yet Nancy. The youngest boy isn't even a year old but is often seen pushing his own stroller down the street while Three In The Bed tags along behind, eating Skittles and reading The New Yorker.  Another neighbor commented  that the children appear to sustain themselves on Fig Newtons and juice boxes.

Nancy: You know, I want to say I have heard enough, but dare I ask if you have found out anything else? 

Kendra: Unfortunately, yes.  I pulled up a few 911 calls from the residence. There was a fire truck here in the summer when their BBQ caught fire, apparently the result of a Bobby Flay throw down gone terribly wrong. The other was an ambulance call for her husband  whose injuries were not fully disclosed but the notes suggest it was a domestic incident involving the season finale of Mad Men being tivo'd over with Man versus Wild.

Nancy: Excellent work Kendra. You know, I have heard enough. I just want to take those precious babies home, bathe them in buttermilk and dress 'em in gingham. Whoever this Three In The Bed is, she makes me sick. Dr. LoveJoy, author of "First Comes Love,"  tell me I am right, this woman is a narcissist with hoarding tendencies?

Dr. LoveJoy: Well, we don't know much, but I suppose there is a chance, she could possibly be.

Nancy: Exactly. Why these moms don't just hang up the internet is beyond me. Kendra, thank you. Next up, Grandma caught Sexting - in church!

 

Potty Talk

 

A quick reference guide for public pee breaks broken out by age. You may want to laminate this on a 3x5 for dads.

High School 

 i need 2 p = the text you get while waiting at the pick up spot

Middle School

I need to pee = I just wandered away without telling you; hey, why did I just hear my name on the loudspeaker?

Elementary School

I need to pee = I lied when you asked me if I needed to go before we left

Preschool

I need to pee = you have twenty seconds to find a bathroom

Two and under

I need to pee = just peed my pants

 

Calgone, Take Me Away! No seriously, let's go.

 

My BFF, who is expecting her third bundle of joy any day now (technically not for three more weeks, but my physic vibe says otherwise) anyway my girlie and I were lamenting the lack of time for personal upkeep and hygiene once you become a mom and it's sad but true that (most) moms really don't get a fair shake at shower time. There are those iconic Calgone ads of the mom laying in the bathtub having her own personal "take me away" moment and I think of that and sigh because I would love to be in that bath (with Viggo Mortensen under the bubbles). But of course it's a complete fantasy as any  mom will tell you that a) unless your bathroom door requires a key card for entry the kids are finding a way in and if it is then b) be prepared to listen to incessant  whining at the door. The reality is there is no way any mom is scoring a bubble bath sans kids. So you acquiesce, the kids come piling in and then of course, you get out - and get towels and tub toys and then of course showers because their hair is full of bubbles. So Calgone if you are going to take me away, you need to do just that, come over and take me away to your secret bath in the underground bunkers where they will bring Nancy Pelosi and the twelve remaining seeds on the planet. This is where I need you to take me Mr. Calgone so I can have my bath.

In fact, it's so bad for moms a very popular mom blog just did a product review on dry shampoo. Now that's just sad. Poor mom has to shake scented powder in her hair in an effort to keep dreadlocks from forming while the rest of the family - especially dads - get their daily cleanse. The other day my husband was  flossing his teeth while I frantically rummaged around for some deoderant in the hopes of masking the growing aroma of stale  peas and sweat that had been cultivating for a few days. Flossing! That is a luxury I rank up there with time to shave above the knee. Virginia Woolf famously wrote "A Room Of One's Own" but I think if she had been a mom, it would have been more aptly written "A Bathroom of One's Own."

Of course some moms are much better at masking the lack of suds time. A consummate observer of other mothers (I am terribly insecure) I have noted the following methods for dealing with scant shower time.

The Double Dip - while baby is in the tub you grab their washcloth and give yourself the once over.

The B&B -  short for Bath and Bodyworks, a generous dosing of seasonal body spray aids in the illusion of cleanliness. 

Sporty Slick - the sporty mom look of pony tail, ball cap, yoga pants - a cover for unshaved legs and unwashed hair.

Done on the Run - a working mom's ability to shower, hair, make-up, dress and get in the car in seven minutes or less.

Of course sooner or later moms manage to squeeze in a little personal hygiene prompted by either an annual psychical or some cuddle time with the hubby, of course depending on circumstances, it too may be an annual event. But sooner or later  mom gets a shower and a shampoo and possibly even to pop open that conditioner sample from Ulta and then to blow out her hair, put on a little mascara  and oh my god, she is indeed - a woman, a lovely woman. Okay, where are we going honey? Where? A hunting/mountain bike/scuba diving expo? Are you serious? Okay, well I definitely want to go out to eat. Where? That new barbecue place where they roast the pig in the ground for twelve hours? Exhausted Sigh. A double dip and a dry shampoo would have sufficed for this night of romance.

 

When The Mommy Marble Shifts

 
Most (honest) moms will admit that there are times in the day when a mom just hits the wall. Serene super nanny mom evaporates and  it's mommy's turn for a melt-down. Mom suddenly hits her maximum capacity for whining, bickering, rolled eyes, shrugged shoulders and general resistance that is suffered through the course of a normal day.You should note that these experiences are heightened when exposed to the following variables: pregnancy, air-travel, prolonged husband exposure or when trying to clean up an exploded poopie diaper that the dog is getting curious about while your preschooler is moving dangerously close to a pot of spaghetti that is boiling over while the phone is ringing...or something like that. Mommy melt downs are different for every mom depending on the age and quantity of children involved, whether it occurs in public or private and that mother's preferred method of inducing shock and awe onto an unsuspecting, but most oft deserving family. Here are a few mommy melt down styles I have observed.

Screaming Mimi: the most vocal of the mommy melt downs, a Screaming Mimi is also the most common. This is because it works on such a wide range of ages, usually results in an immediate cease and desist of the offending activity and provides mom with a good release without much prolonged guilt. A Screaming Mimi melt down may go something like this "Boys, I am not going to ask you again, stop arguing, share your toys." No response. The marble shifts. Screaming Mimi is activated, "THAT IS IT! TO YOUR ROOM NOWWWWW!!! I AM SICK OF ALL THIS FIGHTING."  Shock and awe. Boys in room. Mom feels marginally better. Screaming Mimis are usually fairly reactive, so common phrases include "BECAUSE I SAID SO", "DO NOT ASK ME AGAIN", "DID YOU HEAR ME?" and "CUT IT OUT, NOWWW"and perhaps the phrase most credited to the Screaming Mimis "DO NOT MAKE ME PULL THIS CAR OVER!" The Screaming Mimi can be done in public though it is usually subdued, relying on clenched teeth and vexed brow than heightened voice. Examples include "Get in the car, now!" Or, "Do not hit your sister in church!" This is simply the Modified Mimi.

Screaming Mimis are very different from Sobby Sues. 

Sobby Sue:  The Sobby Sues are very emotional, tend to get more frustrated than angry and channel that frustration into a big ol mess of tears and sobs. Sobby Sues tend to come on a lot during post partum not only induced by hormones but also because it is generally frowned upon to bust out a Screaming Mimi on a newborn. Sobby Sues are usually looking for an audience and tend to migrate their melt down to the bathroom in the hopes that someone will care enough to come collect them and give them a nice cup of tea or bourbon depending on the offense. A Sobby Sue melt down may be brought on by a derailed dinner. "Ew, mom what is this?" "Mine smells funny" "Honey, you know, I am not much of a lamb eater myself" Sobby Sue pushes herself back from the table,  tears begin flowing, lip quivering "You know, I try so hard for this family, to have a nice dinner, to try something new and you are just all so, so, (really sobbing now) un, un, ungrateful...." Then a dash to the nearest bathroom for continued sobbing. A Sobby Sue is best suited to a mature family as preschoolers lack both the empathy and bladder control necessary to work with a Sobby Sue.

Bordeaux Betty: Bordeaux Betties are moms who do not believe in keeping things bottled up (no pun intended) (well okay a little pun) Bordeaux Betties manage to hold it together long enough to get the kids to bed and break out the mommy juice. You may ask how this qualifies as a melt down, but it does. Bordeaux Betties are very cunning and swift in their operation. Bedtimes are rolled back two hours as unruly kids are lured to bed with hand held game devices and snacks. The children lay in bed thinking that lights out seemed really close to supper, wait a minute, did we even eat supper? Mom? Moooomm? But Bordeaux Betty is not answering tonight, she is half way into an Australian Cab that tastes like butter and is giving serious thought to boycotting bakesales and sending the principal a manifesto on magazine sales. Bordeaux Betties can actually be credited with the creation of "girls night out" as well as "spa retreats" and some have rumored "mother's day". 

Every mom needs at least one Bordeaux Betty in her circle, but be warned these moms are practiced in the art of mommy time, a new mom in her zeal may get over indulgent when out with a Bordeaux Betty resulting in an unprovoked Screaming Mimi on her husband who has come to collect her followed by a Sobby Sue episode in a public bathroom...

 

10 Questions for Skinny Moms

 

We all have seen them, most of us know some; they live in our neighborhood,  come to the playgroups and of course can always be found at the gym - skinny moms.

They nearly run you over with their three across jogging strollers, whizzing by on Saturday mornings, two days home from the hospital with the latest bundle of joy,  training for a marathon next month... They come to the playgroups eating dried kale chips and guzzling green tea. They strut around the gym locker rooms in their thongs blowing out their hair in a hurry to get home and what? Make dinner? Do they eat? I just have so many questions for these moms, I finally wanted to get them out there.. . 

Are you hungry? Seriously, are you just hungry all the time? You have to be because I have eaten the entire tray of brownies that overly nice mom brought to the play group and you have hardly touched a cruditie...

Does your husband appreciate your thinness? When you wear a string bikini on spring break and go splash about with the kids, does your husband slap your butt and say that's my fine lookin' wife? Or does he just whine about the lack of cell phone service like mine does while I splash about with my cover-up on and stare at you from across the beach.

What is everyone else in the family eating? Do you cook for the kids and then just  go in the other room and do push ups until they finish?

Is it the Special K diet? Because if it is, I am buying a box of that shit on the way home... 

Do you appreciate your MILF-ness? I wonder, I mean, does it all stem from self loathing or are you looking at me thinking, "your husband would do me in the cubby closet"?

What exactly are pilates? I am assuming you do them, because it's always you skinny moms in the class when it's going on and I have just always wondered what the heck it is. 

If it's not the special K Diet, is it Meth? I read this thing in Oprah about moms and meth...although you appear to have all your teeth.

Is it nice to be in the family photos? I see your Facebook  page and holiday cards all clearly feature you smiling brightly with your family. My kids will have to search the national archives for photos that include me and I figure, you must get some small satisfaction from being in the family photos.

Do you own any clothing that isn't Lululemon? Or is it just standard issue once you hit a certain weight class?

Are you going to eat that? Oh sorry, I was just wondering, did you want that last piece of brownie, because  if not, I am going to... Okay, thanks...

 

The Seven Stages of Bed Time

 

There is perhaps no greater obstacle in a parent's day than bedtime. Of course, there is that smug clan of parents who can't relate to bedtime burdens. It's lights out by 7pm, kitchen clean by 7:30 and then pop open a nice Chardonnay and watch Dancing With the Stars. To you I say solemnly, we can't be friends. I have parenting esteem issues as it is and either you are cashing in on some previous life karma or you share that Chardonnay with the kids. 

Anyway, I got to thinking the other night during another round of bedtime drama that there is a rather good connection between the stages of bedtime and the stages of grief. Here are my observations.

Stage One: Shock & Denial.

OMG, is that the time!?! That can't be the right time...

Stage Two: Pain & Guilt.

I am a terrible parent. My children will be obese and have poor brain development because I have de-prioritized their  twelve hours of sleep. 

Stage Three: Anger & Bargaining

Get to bed - now! now! now! Yes, you can wear your cinderella dress with a cowboy hat to bed and hot fudge sundaes for breakfast, just get in bed - NOW!

Stage Four: Depression & Loneliness

Eat hot fudge sundae alone in the kitchen and contemplate what a normal family is and what time they may go to bed at.

Stage Five: The Upward Turn

Wine.

Stage Six: Reconstruction & Working Through

Google "how to get kids to bed" while drinking wine.

Stage Seven: Acceptance & Hope

I will never get to watch Dancing With The Stars alone with a glass of Chardonnay. There is hope however, for some tivo and tequila...