When I imagine bedtime, I think of sweet interactions with deep questions being posed and attentive ears ready to listen. I think this imagination has been fuelled by some well written books about parenting. There is a definite sense that bedtime can be a magical world of family bonding.
Enter my reality. There are four small children, all bearing the last name Harvey, that have just finished dinner and fuelled up for what can only be described as nighttime hysterics. They have been instructed to stop running laps around our upstairs portion of our house and to retire to the basement of the house where bath time will commence. This seemingly simple idea takes at least 20 minutes. Everyone needs to run just one more lap, they need to tell me something, they need to tell daddy something (or some-phing if you are Samuel Harvey), they need to gather some supplies and play one more time with the toys they haven't touched all day.
Once we are downstairs, they need to do a naked lap or two. This is a real thing in our house. It is some kind of primitive exercise in exhibitionism mind you, but it is a real thing. One of our children, a boy, not named Samuel, takes a particular delight in this little ritual. He throws his clothing and restraint to the wind and off he goes at full speed with the cutest little bottom in town running circles around our basement. No neighbours can see in at this point, so Shawn and I take this moment to hug each other and rally our strength for phase two of the bedtime ritual.
Once all children are gathered and placed (or dropped depending on the night) in the bathtub, the bathing process commences. While the children are in the tub, we gather jammies and towels and listen for the sound of the inevitable tsunami that will occur and result in much tongue clucking and scolding about how we are not at a water park, and this is not a slide.
"OUT OF THE TUB, ALL OF YOU!"
One by one, freshly towel-ed bodies are paraded to their bedrooms where dry pyjamas are pulled over wet skin, with instructions like this: "Focus please, you need to focus. Come back here. no more naked laps, we are done, get back here. These Jammies are fine, you wore the other ones last night so they are in the wash. I know Isaac usually wears these but tonight you get to...lucky you! These Jammies, these are fine. Stop moving, hold still, I can't get this over your foot...."
Now I am sweating and there are three more.
Now we brush our teeth. Some genius called Mom decided that it would be fun to buy toothbrushes that light up for 60 seconds while they brush so they know when to stop (they really should run these ideas by actual parents in real time, but no one asked so here we are). The overhead lights have to go off and we have a full blown toothbrush disco party in the dark with lights flashing and some teeth getting clean while mom and dad are just trying to figure out how to keep things moving along.
Now we spit. This is disgusting. Children who cannot reach the sink should not be spitting. We have pink and blue toothpaste and by the time we are done there are pastel ribbons all over the counter and basin of the sink.
Ok, to bed! (I can see the finish line from here, but I feel the bedtime magic pressure right here, right now)
I want our kids to be readers. This is the time to make it happen. We should read books, they should read books, we should talk about Bible stories and ask questions like "how do you spell Zacch-ee-uss?" We should sing pretty songs and have deep eye contact while leaving the door of opportunity open to hear about any difficulties or heart issues they might be experiencing.
This is where it should happen and sometimes it does. Sometimes, I have the best of mom moments and we have meaningful discussions and we giggle and feel so rich.
Other times I sing at super speed, its the full song, but double time. Or I read the most simple book, or we turn their bedside lights on and they can look at books while I wander around my basement trying to find the energy I lost in the last 30 minutes.
Sometimes, I have nothing left so they get a "Jesus we pray for a good sleep, all good dreams and no bad dreams in Jesus name. Goodnight girls, love you so much, stay in bed OR ELSE." kind of bedtime routine.
Here's the deal. On those nights, I think I have nothing left because I left it all over our house. I hear athletes telling each other to "leave it all on the floor", and that is what we do. All of us. Everyday. We leave it all on the floor.
It is our messy living room floor where we ate toast for breakfast while watching Daniel Tiger's Neighbourhood. On top of the toast crumbs are the Hot Wheels cars that the boys played with right next to the dolls and the blankets that were carried out of the playrooms by children who just wanted to be near me.
Today, all of my energy went to feeding them and keeping them alive and hopefully happy.
I have a hard time remembering where my time goes when I am home with them all day. I do remember that I got climbed on, elbows in my legs as they made their ascent up to my lap. I remember that my toes got slammed into with their ride-on cars as they drifted around the corner in the kitchen. I remember that I navigated all four of them trying to "help" me make smoothies this morning, each one trying to be the first to push the button and I was just trying to get the lid on before there was smoothie on my ceiling. At one point I heard water running, (never a good thing) I went into the bathroom only to find that Alina had coached Samuel up onto the counter and had his head in a sink full of water because she wanted to give him a "bow-hawk". He also managed to knock a picture off of the wall and break the frame. It was a little hard to get mad at that dripping face since he was so proud of his hair do, so I just passed on the whole getting mad thing. 
I also remember that each of them, in their own special way found time to tell me that that they loved me. Samuel comes through the room, walks by, backs up and says "Mommy, I just wuvf you". Isaac climbs over the back of my chair and lands upside down on my shoulder and with a yelling whisper that sends shivers down my spine says he loves me too. Alina makes me cards on anything she can find and writes her signature "Alina love Mommy". If she is particularly affectionate, she will find an envelope and put in the mailbox while I am freaking out about why the front door is open. Emma will climb on my lap the moment I sit down, every time, and snuggle with me. It is our favourite thing.
It all sounds so fuzzy and sweet as I sit here in my quiet house. I smile to myself just thinking of them. Their sweet little filthy faces and their mischevious ways. Today it felt like they had 4 sets of hand each. They were busy. They were crazy. They woke up ready to keep me fully employed in crisis management all day long.
On days like today, I just wonder what their memories will report when they get older. I wonder what they will remember of dinner time, of bed time. I always worry that they will remember my low moments when the crazy version of mom ruled supreme. Of course I hope they will remember the times that I had the energy to sit and read and have meaningful conversations with them while they were tucked sweetly in their beds.
Either way, I will remember them like they were today. Wild, energetic, loud and all mine.
Either way, I will remember them like they were today. Wild, energetic, loud and all mine.
Tomorrow we start again. They are early risers, these Harvey kids. We clock in around 6 or 6:30 every morning. One by one they will make their way to our bedroom, climb painfully, with elbows and knees everywhere, onto our bed. We will snuggle for three or four glorious moments and then it begins:
What is for breakfast? Can I have the iPad? How come I never get the iPad? Mommy get up. I need to go potty. Daddy, can I have some water? Can I have some water RIGHT NOW?"
sigh.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I will miss these years. I already look at videos and wonder what happened to my toddlers? They have been replaced by semi-articulate little people that are full of thoughts and sentiments that surprise me daily. I will miss the madness. Although I am sure those of you with older kids will assure me that the madness just takes on different forms.
I will take my madness for today. I have left it all on the floor. I am going to bed a satisfied, tired, bruised and sticky mommy.
Tomorrow? Bring it on!
