Well, if you've read this blog thoroughly, as I'm sure you have, ahem, you'll know that bedtime for us isn't easy. While it's better than it was, it's still not the smoothest experience. But who knew I'd be desperately craving our clunky bedtime ritual this week while on vacation? Because bedtime on vacation sucks. Sucks hard.
My family rented a lake place for the week. We moved in Saturday evening. It's beautiful-- right on the lake, enough space for everyone, nice yard. Of course, the owner has an unsettling collection of chickens and roosters, but other than my mom being a little afraid of the dead chicken eyes always upon her, it's fantastic.
That is, it was fantastic until bedtime. There's something about the house's construction that makes every tiny little noise amplified about a million times. That paired with being in a strange place, a different bed, and the knowing that there is a lot of fun out there waiting to be had for those not going to bed, makes for a shitty, shitty bedtime.
We nabbed the downstairs/basement part of the house, because Norah goes to bed before others, and we thought it would be nice for everyone if they could go about their business as she slept. But as we were downstairs, people going about their business sounded like a construction site. Every footstep sounded like the floor was about to crash down upon us. Every creak of the door sounded like a screeching harpy. The boats on the lake might as well have been a lawn mower on the other side of the couch. As I cuddled her on the couch downstairs in the dark, she couldn't help but be distracted.
"What's that, Mommy?"
"It's just Nana and Papa going to bed."
"It's just Papa saying goodnight to Hannah." [Their dog.]
"Just someone Mommy's trying to decapitate with her mind."
"Close your eyes, Sweetie."
When I finally got her down to sleep, I was so tired, I went to bed as well. Then a few hours later, I heard:
"Mommy? I need up."
I tried to remember that she was probably nervous about being in a new place, and to be understanding, but I am also fighting a cold and my tolerance level, which is usually about a niner, was down to approximately a two.
I scooped her up and brought her to the daybed, where I was sleeping. (Ryan had to work, so he wasn't there yet.) Daybeds are small-- twin-sized. I laid her down and closed my eyes. She chattered a little while. Started playing with her feet. Started kicking the oil painting above the bed. Kicked me in the boob so hard, tears squeezed out of an eye. I stayed silent. My goal was to bore her to sleep. It eventually worked.
Once sleeping, I tried to scooch her over a bit. I can't sleep when I'm being touched or if I'm too hot. Every time a scooched her, she would slip right back, head in my neck, whole body against me, like a sweaty, 28-pound tumor.
I got up and moved her back to her bed, trying to hold in a phlemy cough as to not wake her. It, of course, erupted out of my mouth like a giant juicy hack, and I heard:
I went to the couch and started over.
"The wind, Baby."
"Mommy's brain exploding."
"Nooo. You're silly."
When I got her down again and placed her in her little bed, I went back to the daybed, almost giddy to close my eyes. Then one of my nostrils got clogged (summer colds are the worst), and I laid there for another eon, flipping from side to side to get it to unclog so I could breath semi-normally. Awesome.
Please pray with me. All together now. May the rest of vacation have happy, peaceful sleep.