Bedtime, I hate you. Bedtime, I love you.

This is what it's like at night:
"In 5 minutes, you need to be upstairs, getting jammies and brushing your teeth."
"Okay - upstairs!"
"Hey, turn that off now. It's time for jammies and teeth."

The cajoling plea "Oh, 2 more minutes? I'm almost done with this level! Please?"
"No. Turn it off"

The feet go slowly up the stairs, and enter the bedroom.

Random bickering. Random "No!" shouted at a sibling.  Sound of toys.

"Hey, jammies or teeth brushing! No toys!"

The baffled silence of kids wondering how their mom knows they aren't getting jammies on.

They have their 5 minute window, and then I head upstairs, or the teeth brushing never happens.

Daughter is usually brushing her teeth,  not yet in jammies.  Son is usually 1/2 way in his jammies, but still gets stuck in his shirt with all the gawky awkwardness of his age.

They argue over who gets to spit in the sink first.  They laugh at spit bubbles.  They count loose or missing teeth, and ask when they first got teeth.   Delaying tactics, but also the routines of childhood, marking milestones in their lives.  This is the sign that the bickering is done, and the teasing, and the "No!"  The sign that the part of bedtime I hate is done.

They've been asking for the same stories these days - a strange milestone for me, accustomed to daughters love of chapter books when son was bored by stories that didn't have pictures.  And now they both read for fun, and they both pick the same book so they can have 2 chapters every night and find out the story faster.  One chapter on son's bed.  One chapter on daughter's.

I tuck them in.  I turn off the light.  I sing a song for both of them - usually it's a hymn, though sometimes it is just a lullabye.  Then I sing them each their own song - sometimes one they choose, sometimes one I choose,  sometimes a silly song I make up on the spot as a reward for the rare night when there is no dawdling in getting to bed.  Then... oh then - the part of bedtime I love the most. The 5 quiet minutes of any kind of questions, or talk, or worry, or love, or dream they want to share with me while I snuggle with them in the safe place where they sleep.   These moments - I would not trade them for anything else.  This time is when I truly get to know my children,  when I can offer reassurance about their fears, or answer their hardest questions,  and they feel safe enough to ask.  Bedtime, I love you.

And then... it's a last hug, and a last kiss, and a last little caress of their cheek, and I have to wish them good sleep and leave, when my heart's wish might be to just stay there, and watch them slumber, and love them as big as the universe can hold.

Girls *should* ask

- because asking for what you want is okay.
- because asking for a date is about as terrifying as asking for a raise
- because asking means speaking up.
- because using your voice is the best.
- because waiting for something to come to you is not the way to get what you want
- because sometimes, the hero doesn't have a horse

I've been done with that whole "wait for what you want, it will come to you" crap for a very long time.  I hate that cultural programming for girls, who then turn into women who expect that if they are good enough, or nice enough, everything they ever dreamed of will be theirs.

Nope. Sorry nice girls, sorry nice women.  If you know the dreams you have - it's totally fine to go out adventuring on your own to seek it.  The more you stay, waiting - the easier it is to stay waiting.
Go find your dream. Chase it. You can be nice on your adventures, but you have my permission to kick people in the shins if they get in your way.

A mom's perogative

I'm going to brag on my kids.  You've been warned, and can stop reading now if parental love-fests are not your thing. I love the ages of my kids right now. I'm in a sweet spot of parenting, and I am going to reflect and savor this time as long as possible.  I'm learning it will pass far to quickly.

Darling is 9, and just started 4th grade.  She has a wickedly sophisticated sense of humor, with sarcasm and wordplay taking center stage.  I've had to start asking her if she's joking me, because it SEEMS like a joke, but I'm still not used to such mature humor coming from this child of my body.  She is my gardening buddy, exclaiming with excitement every time she finds another vegetable ripening on the plant or vine. The enthusiasm she has for growing our own food makes me enjoy the work too.  That's a remarkable skill, given how much I hate weeding.  She loves jamming to pop music, some of which I adore right along with her, and some of which leaves me cringing. (1D, really?)  I hope that I never forget the joy singing "Royals" by Lorde and "Brave" by Sara Bareilles at the top of our lungs together.  She's more aware of boys, and I try to not laugh at some of the crushes she'll admit to me.  I'd rather have open discussions about what she's interested in - even if it's boys.  It's a true thing that parenting teenagers starts with parenting 9 year olds.   She is my thinker, who needs time to herself in order to process events. My prayer for her is that she continues to practice speaking up for her needs, even if what she needs means someone else might be sad.  Darling, you can't always please everyone, but you will always please me, just by being in the world.

Hugbug will be 7 in a matter of days now.  He routinely surprises me with his vocabulary, and I don't know why I'm surprised because his sister did (and does) the same. Recent gems include taunting a kid at the camp playground with "Can you even say antidisestablismentarianism?",  schooling me on the meaning of "frenemy," explaining that "buffoon" is an insult, and telling me what's happening in the "epic novel" that he's reading.   He believes in Santa, even though I don't do Santa as a parent, and have told him it's just a story.  He's still firmly convinced I'm mistaken and Santa is REAL.  He opens doors for ladies. He has an entourage of guys that he has to hug in order to fall asleep. He wants to be a prince when he grows up.  Which means he'll have to marry a princess, but isn't sure she'll be willing to travel so very far to meet him because long trips are boring.    This boy... he is the best boy.   My prayer for him is that he can ignore the stupid cultural programming that says boys aren't sensitive, or loving, or demonstrative,  and will still be the sweet, kind, funny, imaginative guy he is now. Hugbug, keep your loving heart just the way it is. 

That is an imperfect description of my babies - who are no longer babies, but turning into interesting, charming, wonderful people.  I'm so lucky to be their mom.