Sleeping Beauties

Tension hangs in the air like a mist. Everything appears emphasised. The clock on the wall ticks louder, the seconds seem longer, the darkness is almost thick.

Those blissful few moments of silence are littered with anxiety until they are broken with an inevitable sound…

“BUT I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED!!!”

And so the siege begins.

The moments that prelude the dreaded bedtime ritual are ironically tiresome in their receptiveness. 

You see, the problem with having a 3 year old is that when you utter the words ‘It’s Bedtime’… you have a 3 year old.

I would once watch action movies, where Bruce Willis negotiates with gun wielding hostage situations, and find them entertaining. Now I relate to them so closely, I’m almost tempted to take notes.

‘I don’t want milk from that cup! I want milk in a bottle, not too warm, not too cold, and Daddy stays here…’ Are the usual demands of our in-house hostile takeover.

‘Two stories, lights out, one drink of milk in a Sippy cup.’ 

‘Just give her what she wants!’ Soccer Hubby squeals, as he steadies yet another bottle of milk in a shaky grasp.

It’s much easier to surrender when you’re the one taken hostage it seems. His eyes widen as further instructions are called from the doorway.

‘SEND IN THE BUNNY, DADDY, I’LL ONLY TALK TO THE BUNNY!!!’

Next time Bruce is faced with shouting at a building through a megaphone, I suggest he simply hand it to a 3 year old, mid tantrum. They don’t have to wait 120 minutes to get results.

Oh, what I would give to have someone wrap me in a blanket, hand me a warm beverage and shuffle me off to nap time. Yet night after night I’m met with the same reaction of horror and dispute.

You only need whisper the dreaded ‘B’ word to morph my children into a catalogue of protesting personalities.

I’m afraid Snow White gate crashed the wrong house if she wanted to avoid the poison of slumber. She should have met our crew; Demand, Distract, Tantrum, Sneaky, Excuse, Teary and Thirsty.

“Fix my blankets!”

“Just five more minutes!”

“I saw a monster!”

“I’m not even tired!”

“I’m thirsty! I need another milk!”

“You forgot to read my favourite story!”

“I’m too cold!”

“I need to tell you something!”

“I’m too hot!”

There is a reason someone sat and concocted the fantasy world of sleeping beauties and poisonous apples that brought about instant sleep. They clearly had children.

And, whilst I cherish every second I spend reading such stories my girls, one is forced to be slightly suspicious when handed the entire contents of a bookcase at 8pm.

“This is the last one,” I argue, flexing the failing binding of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

“Yes, the last one… before we start on the Princess collection.”

Flicking through paragraphs, I’m almost auditioning for my role as I’m forced to return to the previous page to 'do the voices properly', and reminded that I skipped 4 pages.

“Did not!”

“Yes you did, the number nine doesn’t come after the number 4.”

Damn you Sesame Street. Damn you.

Desperate attempts at submission are fought back with a level of war intelligence that could bring down an army. There is almost an active alarm system wired in the mind of a 3 year old that bleeps hysterically when their head hits a pillow. 

They can, quite literally, bounce from an unconscious state to full awareness in under a second.

Countless times I have rocked Miss Boo to slumber on the lounge only to be attacked with tears the second I cross the threshold of the bedroom door.

All signals are floundered with her persistence. Even removing the milk from the fridge door has at times resulted in her barricading herself under the dining room table in a fury of ‘I AM NOT READY FOR MY MILK, MOTHER!’

The cunning approach of playing classical relaxation music on a tactically placed iPod was going to be my legacy. ‘Oh how clever I will be!’ said I, as I skipped from the serene sleep environment I had created. ‘I have emerged victorious! Bow down to my wit and skill!’

A triumph that was to be short lived. Moments later, the tranquil pipe music stopped and was swiftly replaced with a loud ‘…HOT POTATO HOT POTATO..’

Checkmate, dear child.

Yes, it’s not just the initial luring to bed time that triggers drama; it’s the subsequent sneaking from said bed into the lounge room that also causes issues to arise.

With her hands pinned firmly over her eyes, the floorboards signal the approaching Miss Boo as she tiptoes further and further into view. Standing in the dead centre of the living room rug, she peeks cautiously through her fingertips so as not to give away her stealthy position.

I often wonder how long she would happily stand there without intervention.

“Go back to bed.” I snap.

“I’m in bed…” she whispers to make it appear she is still in her room and not, in fact, 5 inches from where I’m sitting.

“Go. To. Bed.” My thumb hovers over the pause button wanting to return to the wonderful world of television that swears and makes inappropriate jokes and doesn’t have a letter of the day.

Giving up, in the same manor she does each and every night, she slaps her hands back down by her side and initiates a guilt trip.

“I just, I just, I just….want to give you a hug. Yes, a hug.”

Attacked at the heartstrings by a child! Don’t tell me they don’t know what they’re doing. These tiny beings are calculating and manipulative forces.

What is one to do?

“Just keep walking them back and putting them in bed each and every time,” said the divine wisdom of the Super Nanny. 

“You bloody do it, I’m tired, cranky and emotionally attached,” said I.

Alas, the games of bed bouncing are layered and psychological. They know they’re wearing us down. Any day now, they know the success of ‘FINE, stay up then!’ will appear on the horizon.

The night, in their eyes, is always young…

Just when you think they’re sleeping, in an almost horror-movie-esque fashion, the bedroom door slowly swings ajar. The top of a ringleted head can just be made out amidst the shadows. It scuttles quickly to the side of the bed and hovers closer and closer.

Blinking through sleep, you sight the up-side-down doll swinging from its grasp. Turning over, you stare up at the figure that slid in beside you and click on the light.

‘Mummy! I need another drink and I want to stay in here with you.’

Ah patience, if only my baby fat would wear as thin.