If Bedtime is a Routine, Why Do I End Up Crying in the Laundry Room?

When my wife and I first became parents, the bedtime routine was a Pinterest-perfect dream: bath, story, prayers, bed. Four simple steps that took maybe 30 minutes and ended with angelic children drifting peacefully off to dreamland.

Fast forward a few years, and what was once a gentle bedtime waltz has morphed into something closely resembling a hostage negotiation.

The bath—once a simple transfer of child to water—now requires the diplomatic skills of a UN peacekeeper. “It’s bath time” has become the household equivalent of declaring war. There’s bargaining, counting, an existential crisis, possibly a fit, and me muttering under my breath about kids being tiny terrorists while I retreat to the kitchen to regroup once the children finally enter the tub.

Then there’s the constant reminding that they and the water need to stay in the tub. I don’t know when exactly my bathroom became SeaWorld, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t sign up to be in the splash zone every night.

By the time we’ve survived the bath, I’m already exhausted, but like a marathon runner who’s just passed the first mile marker, I know the real challenge lies ahead.

Next comes the Great Pajama Hunt. Despite having dressers full of clothes, every night is like a scavenger hunt for the Holy Grail of sleepwear. I’m not sure if they are somehow managing to lose their pajamas during the day or if their pajamas are running away from the bedtime routine the same way I want to, but despite having 6 pairs of pajamas each, they can’t seem to find them on any given night.

Then it’s snack time, which should be simple: eat something while Daddy reads a story. 

But nooooooooooooooo.

We have to negotiate over the snack with frequent reminders that “sugar isn’t a bedtime snack” and “if you choose a bag of goldfish, you should expect not to finish it because you can’t just sit and savor them at the rate of one cracker every three minutes.” I’m pretty sure my children could filibuster Congress with their bedtime stalling tactics.

By the time we get to the actual story, my eyes are crossing, and I’m struggling to read coherently. Words start to blur together, and I begin to read at a fourth grade level instead of like a seasoned journalist. They love story time, and I wouldn’t trade those moments for the world, but I’m so exhausted at this point that I cannot reliably string two sentences together.

Then comes what we optimistically call “15 minutes of cool-down time.” We decided to help our kids adjust to bedtime by giving them 15 minutes to prepare for sleep, hoping that this would make bedtime a little more peaceful. Some nights they draw or read quietly, and I think, “Maybe we’re finally getting the hang of this parenting thing!”

Other nights, they use those 15 minutes to reenact scenes from “American Ninja Warrior” on their bedroom furniture while simultaneously testing the structural integrity of our drywall. I don’t know when getting ready for bed included an epic sword fight, but sometimes it does.

After the 15 minutes (or sometimes before, depending on how the snacking went), we brush our teeth. This annoys the absolute life out of me. We got them really nice electric toothbrushes that go for the prescribed two minutes, which is approximately one minute and 45 seconds longer than my patience lasts at this point in the evening.

This is where I often get accused of being mean, the worst dad ever, and yelling for no reason. This is where it all comes unraveled. My son takes two additional minutes to stop goofing off, which is precisely when I start telling him he will be losing privileges. After that threat, the only thing he actually ends up losing is his mind.

Once the brushing and gnashing of teeth is over, we say our prayers. It’s the standard “Now I lay me,” with the “God bless everyone and everything in the household” tacked onto the end. I’m pretty sure last night God was asked to bless the dust bunnies under the bed and a half-eaten apple from three days ago.

Lastly, we turn out the lights, and they play while they’re supposed to be sleeping. I don’t care because I’m officially off duty now. The sounds of giggling and thumping from upstairs could indicate they’re building a rocket ship or planning a coup—either way, it’s tomorrow’s problem.

Currently, they’re trying very hard to make “30 minutes of outside time” a requirement before their bath. I’m not sure if this is a genuine desire for fresh air or just another brilliant delay tactic in their ever-expanding arsenal to make it impossible to ever get to bed on time.

At the time of this writing, I’m considering investing in tranquilizer darts or perhaps just moving bedtime up to noon.