Stepped on a Pop-top

There are mornings when I wake up, open one eye, and start counting down the hours until my children's bedtime. Today was one of those days. They don't happen often, and the whole day isn't bad. It's the anticipation of what is coming. The certain knowledge that it won't end well. That the day should end at about 4 p.m., but will need to be stretched until at least 7 p.m. if we hope to sleep through the night. It is those three hours that cloud my day. Today was one of those days. It was the first of those days I have had with two children and was entirely brought upon myself for putting them to bed a little too late.

Tired children are just so, well, unreasonable. And cranky. And hard to please. They make demands. Tired parents meet them. But they don't really want what they demanded. It was something else. They need to sleep. But they will fight sleep. They can fight it so well there is no hope they can fall asleep. It is an ugly scene.

I have often heard myself saying things like, "I am sorry, Alex, but being tired isn't an excuse for being rude." "Please don't treat me like that just because you are tired." "Please don't ruin dinner for the rest of us just because you are tired and grumpy." I say these things, and I mean them.

And then I wish we could say those types of things to grown ups too, because if we are honest, we are all guilty of these offenses from time to time in the name of tiredness.

As I have watched Alex grow, it has occurred to me so many times that children are the purest expression of emotion. They say what they say and do what they do without any filter. As they grow, we, their parents, hope we are helping them install those filters... unfortunately, often at times when our own filters are a little worn.

I love the moments of parenting when my angry, upset boy shouts at me pointing. "We don't shout and point at each other in this family, " I shout back. Oops... I didn't mean to shout and, well, is that my finger pointing at him? Hmmm... Well, in this family, we don't intend to shout or point. We don't make a habit of it. Where was the check engine light? I think my filter needs replacing. I must be tired. And so I take a deep breath and try to start again. "I think we are both upset. Let's just take a deep breath. Let's breathe." The yogi kicks in... much better, much better. But the kid is still pointing... The "I" message is failing. What to do? What to do?

Count the hours until bedtime.

Today was a fun day. We went to the gym for open swim. Alex practiced floating on his back, setting a new record for staying afloat on his own. He helped his dad spread top soil and plant wildflowers. Important work. Hard work, he told me. Cate and I dodged bugs and watered plants, retrieved balls from the woods, dumped 38 pounds of compost into its bin. And then we all fell apart, as predicted, right at dinner time.

But our filters were in good order. I kept my mind focused on Jimmy Buffet singing about flip flops somewhere in the background. I didn't try to breathe, although I did encourage Alex to take a breath, and reassured Cate that her hand would not fall off of her body just because it had touched her brother's skin. (Her expression told me that she begged to differ). I just focused on flip flops. Family-style meltdowns and flip flops occupy alternate universes. And when you are in the land of flip flops, you usually aren't doing a whole lot else except breathing. It is a nice place to be.

Both children were peacefully asleep by 7:15. Steve was asleep on the couch by 8. I covered them all with blankets and tiptoed upstairs with the laptop. When I am tired, it is the hours between 8 and 10:30 that are a problem. I have to keep myself awake if there is any hope of me sleeping through the night.

And so I end my day in the same way I started, counting the hours until bedtime. Tomorrow's forecast is sunny and 65 degrees. It might just be a flip flop day.