The bedtime quagmire

First, thanks to koala brains for inadvertently reminding me what I was going to post about.

Second, I looked up the definition of "stall" and this was my favorite answer: "To stick fast, as in mire." Because that's what bedtime has become. A is now a certified M.S., proudly holding her Master of Stalling.

I approach this with a mixture of impatience, irritability, and determination to pick my battles wisely, over which lies a veneer of saintly motherhood. But seriously... I have never found myself so attached to numbers. We can read three books, I'll tell two stories, we'll sing two songs, she can have two small sippy cups of milk, after which she gets water... I'm like a friggin' UN negotiator.

This is how bedtime unfolds in our house:

T gives her a half-hour bath, dresses her for bed, kisses her goodnight, and cheerfully saunters off, leaving me with a wide awake and not-at-all-ready-to-go-to-bed-even-though-she-didn't-nap-which-is-therefore-making-her-overtired-and-prone-to-pitch-a-fit-over-the-smallest-thing child.

I'm in the rocking chair, making sure that we have her lovey, her towel (she sleeps with a towel, not a blanket, and no, I don't recall how that started), and the "black blanket," which is in actuality a navy blue bandanna (and no, I don't know how that started, either). Depending on the night, season, we are running a humidifier and/or a fan. I have to let her turn on the fan.

At the start, I state that we're reading three books and that she can pick which ones. Thus begin the negotiations. "I want this one and this one and that one and that one." (The child, by the way, can count.) "No, that's four. You get three. Which ones out of these four?" "All of them." "That's four." "I want four." "We're only reading three." [insert mild fit as I choose the longest one to set aside] "Are you going to settle down so I can read? If not, you're going right to bed." [me, crossing my fingers] "Okay." [aggrieved sigh from child]

We start the books.

Keep in mind, at this point, I hate all of the books, although some less than others, simply because I've read them all eight billion times. And each of them has a different tradition. The dinosaur book, for example, is far too advanced for her but she likes the pictures. She talks to some of them, she comments on what others are doing, and some of them, well, she smells. (Short explanation: When we first got the book, the woman who gave it to us must have kept it near perfume or something because it smells flowery. I made the mistake of picking it up, frowning, sniffing in the direction of the first dinosaur and muttering, "That's strange." So now, A sniffs half of the dinosaurs, says, "That's strange," and holds it up to me to do the same. You see how this might get old?) And trust me, I have similarly odd stories for most of her other books, too. Not to mention that she knows each book page by page, word by word. So you can't skip or she'll call you on it.

Somehow, I make it through the books and turn out the light. It's story time. She asks for specific stories, from my take on the princess stories (in my version, they're never reliant on the prince, thank you) to stories that happened to me or other family members when we were young. You'd think this would be fun because I have room to be flexible but my brain's already been addled by the books so I find myself struggling. And oh, if I don't get it right, we dissolve into Whine Central. "You didnit tell it right!" Ay, carumba.

I forge valiantly onward to one song in the chair. If I'm lucky, she doesn't argue about the number of songs. But I'm usually not lucky. So we have another back-and-forth, then hopefully, I get away with something relatively easy like the theme song for Blues Clues or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse or Little Einsteins (no, we don't watch much tv, why do you ask?). If I'm unlucky, it's one that I don't know the full lyrics for (some of those damn Backyardigans songs are LONG) or, worse, one that they sing in daycare that I can't even tell what it's supposed to be. If that's the case, we can schedule in a full fit.

Let's just go ahead and fast forward to the crib (yes, she is still in one and will remain in one until she's ready for college, if I get my way). First, before I can even put her in, I have to "sing" "Little Bo Peep" to her, but that's mercifully quick. Then I can put her down, go get the second milk, and then begins the "goodnight" ritual, which goes as follows: "Night-night towel [place that on her], Night-night black blanket [put that on her], night-night soft blanket [same], night-night Bee-bee [that's her lovey, which is an elephant, not a bee], night-night snake [yes, she sleeps with a seven-foot boa--not a live one, I know this because it has purple spots, which I'm fairly certain that no real one does], night-night [random other stuffed animal that she's picked up], night-night bird [we've moved up to her Rainforest Sights and Sounds thingy, which she calls her computer], night-night monkey, night-night butterfly [which I used to skip until T pointed it out, the bastard], night-night fishie." [pause, I look around melodramatically] "Did I forget anybody?" A holds up Bee-bee or the snake, or the towel or whatever and it tells me, "You forgot A." "Oh, for goodness' sake!" [slap to forehead] "Night-night, A!" She giggles maniacally as I thank whatever animal/object reminded me. "Night-night, sleep tight," kiss on the forehead, I leave the room.

If I'm lucky, she falls asleep. If she's in a TRUE stalling mode, I get pulled back in to: give her some water, adjust the blanket (or towel or whatever) because it isn't on right, change her diaper, etc., etc. This usually ends up with someone crying (not me) and someone else making the declaration, "This is the last time and if I have to come back in, there's going to be trouble!"

So. That's bedtime in our house. By the time she's finally asleep, I'm drained. My questions, then, are these: Does anyone else have a routine that's only slightly less complicated than the plan to invade Normandy Beach? And how do the rest of you handle stalling? Because I'm quite certain that I'm not the only parent slogging through the mire. (If I am, please let me know. And give me your mailing address; you'll be receiving a large package notable for its whining and the breathing holes.)