I hate bedtime. It’s the worst time of the day. My children, who have previously been so tired they cannot read, or finish their tea, or do anything useful, suddenly find boundless energy and volume. They’re hyped up by the arrival of daddy home from work and the hour between 6 and 7 is generally just carnage with me wanting to hide in a darkened room until they are asleep.
6.45pm is apparently the perfect time for a loud iPad disco downstairs, with the ‘one more song!’ refrain lasting at least five before we finally manage to make it upstairs to get ready for bed. Where Imogen does laps of the hall refusing to get ready for bed or insists that she’s become dry overnight during the day despite being nowhere near potty trained.
And it doesn’t even get any better when we get them into pyjamas and in our bed for story time. The duvet turns into a cave as one or other of them burrows underneath, inevitably knocking the cup of milk out of the other’s hand. By this time I am losing the will to live and plotting ways to avoid bedtime forever more.
Then comes the transfer to bed. Sophie will suddenly become so tired she is incapable of having a wee, and Imogen is going through a delightful phase where she is unable to sleep without one of us in the room with her. This means making our tea gets later and later and I usually leave her room absolutely ravenous and wanting to eat my own arm. And looking forward to going through the whole process again in 24 hours’ time.