Some mothers get their little one all cozy for bedtime.
I chase mine around like a cop trying to apprehend a felon and struggle to get pjs on as she bucks like a feral bronco.
Some mothers read stories in all the cute voices and lovingly play tea party in the last few minutes while giggling together.
I bob and weave to avoid getting nailed in the face with 37 books being thrown like confetti, and she only lets me read the first page of each one before she aggressively rips it out of my hands.
Some mothers rock babies in their arms sweetly for just a few minutes while humming in their ears and nuzzling into that delicious smelling baby head.
I have to rock mine for at least an hour while she knees me in my uterus and when I can finally escape her koala-like grip to get her in the crib she wakes up screaming.
Some mothers walk out the room all emotional with a full heart, and enjoy the rest of the evening feeling all content and blissful.
I walk out and the floors creak in a volume only a subterranean termite could hear and she wakes up, launching me into a silent temper tantrum including flipping off absolutely nobody in my hallway and flailing my limbs around like someone who thinks they are dancing, at a Phish show.
I’m not some mothers. I hate bedtime. I thought, as a mother, I was supposed to inherently love it. But I don’t and I don’t want to do it and I’m ok with that.
It chips away at my sanity. So, my husband does it.
By that time of day, when I’ve had children up in my face demanding ridiculous things, I’m out.
Can’t hack it.
Reached my limit.
Peace out bitches. ✌🏻✌🏻✌🏻
We all have our strengths as mothers, and bedtime is sure as shit not mine. You don’t have to love all the motherhood things. It doesn’t make you any less of a mama. It makes you a real one.