I remember when she was little how much I loved bedtime. After we read a book I would tuck her in and sing her a song and she would go happily to sleep without complaint.
Now all I hear are complaints about bedtime from Squido, who just turned eight years old. Complaints, among other shenanigans. She’s also become a master at procrastinating the entire event by the normal things like asking for a glass of water after being tucked in, having to go to the bathroom again, having to blow her nose, and so on, and so forth.
Last night I had to lecture her for what felt like the millionth time about the fact that bedtime is bedtime! We do this “going to sleep” thing every single night of your life, it shouldn’t be a horrible shock to you that it’s time to go to bed at nine o’clock.
Today there was a new anti-bedtime event.
About five minutes after I tucked Squido in, she came running out of her bedroom and into my arms crying about having a nightmare.
“You were only in bed five minutes, that’s not even enough time to go to sleep, let alone have a nightmare,” I told her.
Of course, she insisted that she dreamed about an alien taking her toys.
I love that my daughter is so creative, but I really wish the awesome stories wouldn’t come after bedtime.
And yes, I realize this is the second post in a row with “Bedtime” in the title, and that’s weird, and I’ll try not to do it again tomorrow.