After having four daughters, I am within days of turning 46 and also within days of going away from my children for the first time in 18 years. I recognize that 46 isn't old. I can overlook the hypertension that I've had for years, as it runs in the family and is part of the "family gene pool". I can overlook the osteoarthritis in the hips, as that may be part of the "family gene pool". I can recognize that this may be made much more challenging by one too many raviolis, or even better, that large bowl of angel hair pasta, butter and just a touch of salt. I consider my gray hair a badge of honor. I earned them. Each one was earned learning a lesson, whether it be critical, three visits to the NICU or just the hurt feelings of a child. Sometimes it was less so -- and I had to realize that one more week of dirty sheets won't really matter.
Still, some days seem just a tad bit longer. Bedtime can seem like it's getting later and later for the smallest member of our family. Her sisters had a strict bedtime of 7 pm until my sister suggested that perhaps at 9 years of age they ought to be able to stay up at least until 8, when the sun actually went down. However, now I have this five year old who thinks bedtime comes when we all go to bed. Unacceptable on every level. And so our nighttime routines start earlier, are somewhat more regimented than they used to be, but still are longer than her sisters were.
Tonight I went out with a friend and left the "kids" at home with my husband. The only one that is really of age to need some assistance at bedtime is the youngest. On my way home from my dinner, I phoned home. I know, I know. Dumb decision. I was immediately informed that someone, who shall remain nameless, but is small and wears size 5T, refused to use the potty and brush her teeth. It was time to admit to my secret method. I knew it was time, but I didn't want to give up "the card". "The card" was the game that could be, if played correctly, the thing that ensured a timely bedtime, complete with a visit to the bathroom and brushing of the teeth. I call it the race card.
This child is competitive in nature. I have no idea where she got it. It must be from my husband. I'd sooner give in than to compete against anyone for anything, just in case someone's feelings might get hurt somewhere in the world, merely because I brushed my teeth faster. However, this kid loves a good race. So, casually, I mentioned on speaker phone that I doubted that Daddy could make it to the bathroom, efficiently, and get back to her room before she did. I mentioned that maybe I was wrong. Maybe he had practiced. That incentive was all she needed. On speakerphone, I heard the race ensue. It was a flurry of excitement, and giggling and feet pattering all around. Breathlessly, I heard her little voice squeaking "I won. I won. Daddy can't pee as fast as I can!" This is probably not the information that he would use in his new ad campaign for his business, but it did get the job done.
Next came the brushing of the "choppers", as we call it. Another race ensued. This time it was more precarious as the right toothpaste had to be located, then it had to be established that she could not, indeed, grab any random toothbrush and use it. Fortunately, after having four daughters, my husband put his competitive side aside and slowed down his brushing. She once again won the race, and was easily convinced to curl up in bed with the dog in between her and dad as he told a story from his childhood.
My night away was relaxing. It was inspiring as I sat with another woman and discussed our journeys, however varying. But my ride home, the rush and adrenaline gave me hope that the upcoming retreat I had planned would be okay. I could leave my daughters home with their father. The bigger ones had their routine. And that little one. . . Well, she had her races. God bless my husband because it's going to be a race to the finish for three whole days and nights. The only thing that will keep him going are the giggles that followed each and every accomplishment as she kicked his butt over and over again.
Nothing like a giggle from your child to reassure you as you go off for a first and scary weekend away from home. I'll bring my toothbrush and be ready for any races that may take place at the retreat. It's always good to be prepared. And my husband will get to compete, hear the giggles, and get those final quiet moments of the day, snuggled in with her and a silly little dog.
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