Sunday, April 23, 2017

9 p.m. bedtime

Chris helps Caleb dress for the American Heritage Dinner.  He was assigned the role of Edgar Allen Poe.

A cast of true characters for dinner.

It's after 9 p.m. at night.  All four boys are still up.  Only one has showered.  Three are in various stages of procrastination.  They are in denial that the inevitable, bedtime, is drawing near.

One just asked for ice cream.

Another requested to watch a show.

In a state of complete exhaustion and frustration, I roared, "No, it's 9 o'clock at night!"

Caleb huffed back, "What's so magically about 9 pm?"

Nine p.m. is not magical in my book.  It's a sort of deadline.  A deadline for putting little boys' heads to pillows.  A deadline for parenting.  If I had a time clock, it would seem totally appropriate to clock out at 9 p.m.

Just a few years ago, I clocked out at 7:30 p.m.  My four cherubs never saw 8 p.m.  Those were the good old days when I had a full evening to recharge and rewind.

But as the boys have neared the age of shaving, driving licenses, and PG-13 movies, bedtime (if it even exist anymore) has crept later and later.

I'm a morning person.  Tending to the needs of children (fighting over whether they adequately brushed their teeth or completed their math homework) past my witching hour turns me into a witch.  And not a good witch.  My (seemingly) sweet countenance and even-temper wanes.  I'm no longer patient, understanding, and warm.  At 9 p.m., I am a women on a mission with little patience for nonsense and shenanigans.

I imagine that 9 p.m. is just the start of a downward spiral where late nights are the norms.

I could fight a later bedtime, but I imagine its a losing fight.  Instead, I plan to surrender and (perhaps) take up coffee.  

But not tonight.

It's 9 p.m.

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