the damn kid stays up late. he loves the computer, i am a pushover. five more minuteses turn into half hours, it’s going on eleven-ish. i get him into his bed, which has evolved into a livingroom campout, path of least parental resistance. i camp there too on the couch, it’s hard to say don’t do as i do. i am at least guilty of this, permissiveness. at least.
he’s settled into his place, rented goofy movie running. all’s well, right? i used to consider my staying up late as my time of peace in the house, my me time, blogsurfing and emailing and fun. not last night.
me: [listening to mp3s on headphones]
me: [in denial]
[thump. thumpthumpthump. thump]
me: [gets up, stalks into living room, where kid is has turned on the light and the fan, and is bouncing around] lay DOWN go to SLEEP
me: [menacingly, in his face] i MEAN IT. i do NOT want to spank you.
kid: [quiets down]
me: [rushes into living room] dammit i MEAN IT.
me: [makes motions as if i’m really going to spank him] I MEAN IT.
kid: whine, whine, whine [quiets down]
it was an ungodly hour when i got him to sleep, and there was no peace for me last night. there rarely ever is these days.
yeah, i know, bedtime routines, stories, tucking in, we do that. the routine also includes him manipulating me with requests for movies, water, peeled apples, protection from monsters, etc. he’s relentless. someday i’ll figure this out, and when i do we will feel so much better in the morning.
as it is, we’re so tired.