In our house, bedtime is my husband's job. I don't mean that in the "you're home now, so it's your turn" sense that people seem to think, but because bedtime is the only time my husband typically gets with Ethan. On a good day, my husband gets home from work in time for the pajamas to be donned and the teeth to be brushed and from there, he takes over with stories, songs and laying with Ethan until he falls asleep. It's become a tradition that feels a little bittersweet at best; one that is both sweet and endearing to watch as well as being a sad testament to my husband's frustrating work schedule. Like most toddlers, Ethan isn't really keen on change or breaking routine even in the slightest. On the days when my husband works late and can't be home until it's technically tomorrow, Ethan refuses to go to sleep. I'll read him the same stories. I'll sing him the same songs. I'll even scratch his back at his request. I'll think he's asleep and then peeping out from the silence will be a little voice: "I'm not trying to sleep, mommy. I'm not trying to sleep for you." I know he doesn't mean it maliciously. I know it's hard. This is why I find myself suckered into a car ride up and down the dark streets of South Florida, singing songs along with Matt Nathanson Radio a la Pandora and checking the backseat every few minutes to see if Ethan has finally surrendered yet (and usually he hasn't). Whenever my husband makes that 7 o'clock phone call to say he's working late and won't be home before bedtime, I feel like throwing myself on the floor in hysterical, dramatic sobs in the way I know Ethan will once he realizes he gets boring, ol' mommy running the bedtime show. And that's when the show becomes a showdown. A battle of wits. A contest to see who exhaustion takes down first.
Anyway, I know it seems I'm about to go somewhere deep with this but I was just leading into the fact that it's draft night and I am totally giving the middle finger to whoever created Fantasy Football.