I love bed.
I love sleeping, falling asleep, waking up and going back to sleep, all of it. Sleeping is one of the best ways I spend 5 hours of my day. I didn’t used to feel this way. In my time before kids, going to bed was just something my body made me do. And naps? Forget about it.
I love bed.
Lillian, for the most part, does not. Oh sure, there are nights where she asks to go to bed with her words. “Mom, night night.” There are also nights, though, when she tells me she’s ready for bed via an interpretive dance which includes, but is not limited to, screaming, flailing her limbs, chucking herself to the floor, and more screaming.
More often that not she knows that when I say it’s time for bed, it’s time for bed. She doesn’t pitch a fit, but she does attempt to find any excuse to prolong being lifted up into her crib. The conversation goes something like this. (I don’t write toddler dialect well so rather than have you try to decipher what she’s saying I’ll just put it in standard English.)
“Lils, it’s time for night night.”
“No, Mom! Daniel Tiger!”
“No, we’re done watching T.V. It’s time for bed.”
“No. No Jake and the pirates either. It’s time for bed.”
Her shoulders slump as she walks towards me, then perks up.
“I have milk for you, baby girl.”
“I have milk for brother too.”
She again continues walking to her bed and stops in front of the cupboard where her pacifiers are kept.
“I have a pacifier for you, Lily. Keep going.”
We reach her room and I lay her down in her crib.
“Here’s your blanket, baby.”
“Your milk’s right there, silly.”
“Night night, baby girl. Mommy loves you.”
Whine. Sigh. “Night Mom. Love you…”
I can only imagine the excuses she’s going to drum up when she’s late for curfew in a few years.