Bedtime Battle

We're still recovering from Art Hop weekend (more here) and the Bedtime Battle last night. In E's defense, she DID use the potty 6 times, NEEDED 3 glasses of milk, and WAS really hungry.

But, I said "no" to late-night snacks, after she ate a big dinner, because that tends to keep her up later, and tonight I think I'll cut off milk a little earlier.

As frustrating as this is, she has been absolutely adorable while making all attempts to avoid sleep. When I pretend to fall asleep next to her, she puts her nose right against mine and whispers (loudly), "Mommy... MOMMY."

"Hmm?"
"It's morning time now. We can get up!"
"Nice try..."

She giggles, as I get laughing. It basically turns into a middle-school slumber party. She's learning that, if she gets me laughing, she gets to stay up later. Her techniques for getting me to laugh are... admittedly, hilarious.

She squawks like a bird, nodding her head up and down, her little bangs bouncing like loose parrot feathers over her eyes. It gets me every time. She dances like a monkey, sticks out her chin like an old man and says in perfect Olde-English, "Not today, Sir!" when I insist it's time to get some sleep.

She says, "Wait, wait, wait, Mommy," as I try to rush out her bedroom door, "I just want to tell you a story," as I step a little further out into the hall, "Once upon a time!!" It's a trap. The story has begun. Leaving would mean I have ignored some important creative process that has already been set into motion by those magical words. "I woke up! And, my highchair and bib were GONE." It is a sad soliloquy riddled with symbolism of lost baby-hood. Her eyes widen with excitement, and I must ((gasp)) with utter terror and amazement and ask, as if reading from my toddler's script, "And who took them!?" Her eyes squint, her hands morph into claws, her little nose turns up, wrinkled with disgust, "A monster." I can only assume that I am represented by the beast in this odd play. I respond with appropriate levels of disdain and horror and escape to the living room.

She storms out of her room while we're watching Master Chef and declares, with perfect pronunciation, that tomorrow she would like to make a "croquembouche," demanding to know what it is and how we could create it. I stumble, "Um, it's like a tower of little donut holes, with cream in the middle." "Sounds delicious," she waves her hand dismissively. I glance at the stove clock as the numbers change to, "10:49."

"Ellie Jean, back to bed, in..."
"5-4-3-2-1!" she yells.

And, repeat.