Just Go to Bed

I write here a lot about how great my children are. Aside from the times when they’re sick, and spewing bodily fluids all over me, you might think they’re pure angels. Well, sometimes they ain’t. Sometimes they can drive us absolutely nuts. For instance:

Saturday night the boys asked me to play a “triple-battle” game of Pokemon with them. A triple-battle is basically just three players at a time instead of the standard two, but really, in the case of my boys and me, it means the two of them teaming up on me. That’s OK. I can hold my own and still beat them. I like that they consider me their Moby Dick against whom they have to gang up. But anyway…

We started the game later than we should have, and it was dragging on longer than normal. It was going to probably run right up to bed time before we’d finish. We discussed it, and we came to an agreement that when we finished our game, they’d gather up their cards to keep the game room neat and tidy, go straight to their rooms to put on their pajamas, (skipping showers this night), then go to the bathroom to brush their teeth, and then right back to their bedrooms to jump in their beds. There would be no time for books, no goofing around, and no whining or arguing about it. Everyone agreed.

Well, when we finished our game — I won :-) — the boys wanted to go through their decks and make changes. “No,” I said, “it’s bed time.”

“But we just need to swap out some cards,” they said.

Their whining and my nagging turned into frustrated arguing. It took several minutes to get them to put away their stuff, and then I finally got them out of the game room and headed towards their bedrooms.

It was like herding cats. Neither of them would stay on target. I let Calfgrit10 handle himself for a minute while I made sure Calfgrit7 didn’t get distracted. [Yes, our littlest calf turned 7 last weekend.] Every little thing in his room got his attention, and I kept having to redirect him. “Put on your pajamas,” I said. Then I went back to check on Calfgrit10’s progress.

CG10 was sitting on the floor playing with Legos. Urg! “Put on your pajamas!” I said.

“I was just–”

“I know what you were just doing,” I interrupted, “but you’re supposed to be putting on your pajamas.”

“OK!”

I went back to check on CG7. He was distracted again. “Put that down and please put on your pajamas,” I told him. I stood in the room with him to make sure he started before leaving him alone again. He got his pajamas out of his drawers, and then started putting  the shorts on. “CG7, take off your clothes, first.” He was so distracted, and just following my orders without thinking, that he was about to put on his PJs right over top of his clothes.

He took off his clothes, dropping them about the floor. I had to direct him to put them in his hamper. He knows what to do, and my having to watch and guide him every little step in the process was driving my frustration level through the roof. Once he started putting on his PJs, I stepped out of his room and back over to CG10’s.

CG10 was sitting on his bed, completely naked, reading a book. “Why are you reading!?” I barked. “You still haven’t put on your pajamas, yet.” He’s 10 years old; he knows how to get ready for bed without us having to keep on him. He put the book down and made to put on his PJs. I went back to CG7’s room.

The little guy had his PJ shorts on, but had spread out his Pokemon cards all over his bed. “What are you doing!?” I barked.

I continued this back and forth between them for what seemed an eternity. I eventually got them to the bathroom to brush their teeth. But having them in the same room at the same time turned into a silliness competition. The craziness at the sink escalated quickly, so I had to send CG10 out to chill while I got CG7 finished. When I got the little one out and going to his room, I had lost CG10 — he had gone downstairs to look for a toy. Oh my god!

“You were just supposed to wait a minute for CG7 to finish brushing his teeth,” I shouted down the stairs.

I got Calfgrit7 in bed, but he whined about wanting to read a book. “No,” I said, “we discussed this. We finished the Pokemon game so we don’t have time for a book tonight. You agreed.” He started fake crying. It wasn’t going to work on me.

While he cried, I checked on CG10’s progress with brushing his teeth. He wasn’t in the bathroom. Good, I figured he was finished already. But I found him in the game room. “What are you doing!?” I nearly shouted, throwing up my hands in exasperation.

Turns out he hadn’t even gone to the bathroom yet, so hadn’t brushed his teeth yet. I got him to the bathroom and watched as he brushed. Calfgrit7 was still crying, “I want to read a book!”

When I herded Calfgrit10 to his room, Calfgrit7 had come out of his room, crying, saying I’m a bad daddy for not reading him a book. It was already half an hour past the time he’s normally asleep.

I sent CG10 to bed by himself while I returned CG7 to his bed. I tucked him in again, as he cried about wanting a book.

I went back to CG10 and found him going through his drawers looking for socks to wear to bed. I finally got him into bed, and turned out his light.

Calfgrit7 had stopped crying, but he came to his door to tell me he had forgot to plug in his Nintendo DS game to recharge overnight. Sigh. I was relieved he had stopped crying for a book, so I just rolled my eyes, shrugged, and gave in. I went downstairs, got the game, came back up and plugged it in for him.

Calfgrit10 came to his door and said he had left his DS downstairs, too. “Well why didn’t you get it when you were just down there?” I asked.

“You told me to come back upstairs before I could get to it,” he said.

Sigh. I was just wanting this whole thing to be over with, and felt that walking down and up stairs one more time would be better than saying no and having another argument. I went down again, got his game, and brought it back to him. He plugged it in, and I got him back into bed.

At last, all was quiet and still. I waited a minute in the hall, fully expecting something more to happen. Fortunately, it seemed the ordeal was over.

Forty minutes. Holy. Crap. It took 40 minutes for them to put on pajamas, brush teeth, and get into bed. I was completely drained.  How many times had I walked back and forth between their rooms? Ten? How many times had I said, “Put on your pajamas”? Twenty? The whole experience was a blur.

Prayer that night was something about, “Lord, give me the mental endurance to stay sane long enough for them to go off to college. And give me the financial fortune to afford out of state tuition.”

The next night’s bed time went smooth and easy. Little angels, they are. Bipolar, schizophrenic, multiple personality little angels.

Bullgrit