My daughter, Brynn, and I are locked in a bedtime battle. She comes out, I march her back in, and we do this until we’re both dizzy. I went through this phase with my son (7), and I emerged triumphant, so I remain hopeful. She has the standard arsenal of reasons why she should be exempted from the bedtime rule. Thirsty; bored; not tired; teddy bumped his paw. These tactics I can withstand.
But last night she perplexed me. She got me, and she knows it.
I heard her footsteps, slow and calculated; I heard her bedroom door creak. She appeared in the hallway, her brow furrowed in irritation, ready to take care of business like some three-foot Tommy Lee Jones. She crept toward me with one hand over her rib cage.
She got right in my face, indignant. “Mommy?”
“My heart itches.”
Image courtesy of Jeanne Claire Maarbes at FreeDigitalPhotos.net