Bedtime is But a Dream

I had, in my head, this idealized version of what parenthood would be like.  It all comes in stages, but somewhere in my head I had this picture of the boys all tucked up in bed while Trip or I read to them from the childhood classics.  They would be - as I was at that age - spellbound by the words weaving in and out to create the tapestry of story.  Of course, then they would drift off peacefully to sleep and we would kiss them on the sweet-smelling foreheads, tip-toe out and switch off the light.

The reality is something more akin to a scene from Lord of the Flies.

Generally, half-naked children are streaking through the house, screaming they can't find the charger for the handheld games, or that they are out of toothpaste.  We wrestle them out of dusty jeans and change sheets that nobody realized were dirty until bedtime.  There is a frantic last grasp for a glass of water, a missing homework assignment.

"Can I borrow one of Dad's t-shirts to wear to bed?".

"I didn't finish my dinner. Can I have a snack?"

"Do we have school tomorrow?"

"Can I play my DS for just 10 more minutes?"

Meanwhile, the baby is crying because she's decided it's CLUSTER FEED TIME! so even though she was nursed an hour ago, she can't possibly survive five more minutes without a good gnaw at the boob.  And she probably just transacted some unpleasant business in her diaper, for good measure.

Once everyone is finally tucked into bed and the Papa Bear and Mama Bear have settled into the overstuffed cushions of the sofa for some much-needed quality time with The Doctor, you can just about set the clock for the time when the patter of four-year-old feet will be heard coming down the stairs.  Milo loves Dr. Who, too.  At least, he loves the first ten minutes or so -- after that, he can be depended upon to nod off to dream-land, turn sideways on the couch and start kicking someone in the head.

Yes, I had an idealized picture of what parenthood was going to be, and it bears about as much resemblance to the reality as I bear to Gwyneth Paltrow. 

But I still have high hopes they'll one day love The Phantom Toll Booth as much as I do -- even if they read it to themselves or each other instead of having it read to them by a frazzled mother who would probably fall asleep before they did, anyway.