Every night at 8pm, it goes down.
“MaKaaaaayla, it’s time to go to beeeeeed.”
I say it in that sing-songy way mothers do when we are trying to convince our children that what we are asking them to do is something good for them. Something they’ll want to do.
Yep, she says it just like that. Like she has options. Like she’s the Vito Corleone of our home and we’ve just come to her with some stupid request that would ordinarily make her off us if it wasn’t for the fact that we are family.
Through my teeth, I respond. “What did I tell you about telling Mommy and Daddy no?”
Big, bright, almond eyes. One blink. Two blinks. And a grin.
It’s her favorite nighttime cartoon. The one we watch after we read her favorite bedtime story. After she’s plays one last time with her Doc McStuffins or Elmo dolls. The cartoon that is SUPPOSED to be her signal that it’s time to go upstairs, brush her teeth, wash her face and GET IN THE FREAKIN’ BED!
“It’s getting ready to go off, Kay. When it does, we’re going upstairs to go to bed okay?”
More bright eyes. More blinks. And of course…
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