While Ben was out of town last week, the girls evidently held a secret conference. I don’t know where I was—maybe on my 100th milk run of the evening, waylaid in the kitchen by an over-affectionate Coconut, who, unbeknownst to me, was acting under orders. The conference took place in Addie’s room. In attendance: Addie, Rosie, Chris and Martin Kratt, and seven thousand Shopkins.
Addie: I feel like maybe Mom has gotten a little too comfortable around here.
Rosie: I don’t know, I mean, I feel like we’ve done a good job slowly eroding her spirit, right, Chris?
Chris Kratt: TO THE CREATURE RESCUE!
Addie: Yeah, during waking hours. But then there are all those sweet, sweet hours after we go to bed when she has control of the house.
Rosie: I thought Mommy was a robot that turned off after we went to bed.
Addie: I used to think so, too, but then, one night, when I thought I could come to the kitchen and help myself to some mini-muffins, guess who was standing there, completely not a robot, and took the muffins from me?
Rosie: [Gasps audibly.]
Addie: So I’m telling you, we’ve gotta hit her where it hurts.
Rosie: The boobies?
Addie: No, her bed, moron. But also her boobies.
Shopkins: [Lay on floor, saying nothing, preparing to stab Mommy in the foot as soon as she dares enter the room after dark.]
And so it came to pass that every night for the past week, Addie and Rosie have come to sleep in bed with me at some point during the evening. Addie will generally wake me up to inform me that she has arrived; when questioned, she makes up an elaborate story about a bad dream involving a spider and glowing green eyes out her window and sometimes killer unicorns, which is pretty badass, because those guys would make amazing impaling machines. Rosie, on the other hand, sneaks in using ninja-like skills, wedging herself between Addie and me until we form a capital H.
I’m not really sure how I’m going to undo this—I assume there is some parenting book about how to get your children to sleep in their own beds, but I’ve gotta believe that their method involves me waking up repeatedly in the middle of the night, and I would really rather just end up relegated to eight inches of mattress at the very edge of the bed than deal with that noise. I just keep telling myself that eventually they would be caught dead than spend their evenings snuggled up with their mama.
Even if their idea of “snuggling” is really just “sleep-punching me in my boobies.”