Sweet, sweet bedtime.

Bedtime is at Eight. Not nine. Not eight thirty. Not eight o’ five. Eight. 

I'm not a mean person, but bedtime is bedtime. 

It’s sacred. 

I spend all day telling myself that I just need to make it to eight o' clock, so when it hits, all I can think is: Bed time! Bed time! Bed time! Bed time!!!

I love my kids so much. I love them so much, I need them to go to sleep so that I can love them again tomorrow. I need them to go to sleep so that I can breathe for a minute. I need them to sleep so that I can hear quiet. I need them to sleep so that I can eat the stuff I spend all day telling them they can’t eat. I need them to sleep so that I can watch the shows I can’t watch while they’re awake. I need them to sleep so that I can be nice again tomorrow. I need them to sleep so I don’t lose my mind. 

Bedtime for kids, is legitimately every parents natural reset button. It’s organic! (That’s so trendy right now, and I do always like to stay up on the latest trends! #inpretendland)

I have literally told my kids: Please go to bed. I need you to go to bed so that I can have a little time to myself, so that I can be nice again tomorrow. 

Thats not bad parenting, that’s honesty. Being honest with your kids is also big right now. See how amazing I am!

Also, naps.

Those are amazing, until they aren’t anymore. Before too long, naps turn into: The power surge the three year old needed to stay up ‘till midnight! 

No thank you. I’ll take my chances in the afternoon when the sun is up and I haven’t turned into a pumpkin yet. No naps for the three year old. 

(Oh, and by the way, the three year old goes to bed at seven. Hallelujah! *Insert prayer emoji*) 

It's just that I need a solid two hours of being a person before I can go to sleep at night to wake up as a mom again. A solid two hours of being someone who isn't "Mama". That’s two hours (*minimum) in a twenty four hour day of being me -sans kids. (And don’t tell me sleeping counts! Every night is a lottery on how many hours you’ll be gifted that night. And guess what... the game is rigged!) That’s not asking for too much, guys. It just isn’t.  

I’m also not going to feel bad about wanting my babies to sleep. When they sleep, I become a better mother. I beat myself up about the poor parenting choices I made that day, giggle about the inappropriate comment one of them made  (because I’m twelve), spend time with the person who helped me make them (and is helping me raise them), and then vow to be better tomorrow.  Every night I’ll kiss them and hug them (sweetly at first) and then I’ll remind them (slightly less sweet) that if they come out of their rooms one more time, I will gift them to the streets. Then, once they're asleep sound in their beds I’ll use a considerable portion of the time I have without them, worrying about every. little. thing. 

This is a permanent condition of parenthood I think. We can’t wait to get them to bed, then spend our time without them, worrying until the exhaustion kicks in and then wake up the next day to do it all again. The groundhogs day of parenthood. (I'd like to see Bill Murray play me as well!)

Being a parent is a constant battle between you and your (eventual) mental breakdown. It's the age old fight for compromise. They sleep, and while they do, I muster the gumption to survive another day.  See, compromise!

So please, sleep my babies. Sleep and dream of a loving mama who wants to smother you in kisses, play games with you, laugh with you and snuggle you. And then, while you sleep, perhaps I can gather the fortitude to actually do those things. IRL!

And that, my friends, is how I’ve proven that a rigid bedtime is the recipe for happiness. Science.