Toddler Bedtime: A War Story

Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate My Kids

STORY, Texas — We’ve gone through some "difficult" bedtimes. Recently, my stupid wife couldn't get our demonic toddlers, "Whateveryournameis" and "Youknowhoyouare," to stay in their beds. So, like the idiots we are, we decided to document our failures and share them with the world.

"I’ve been through these situations enough to know they’re just phases of everlasting torture that will leave you crying yourself to sleep at night, questioning every decision that led to this hellhole of a life."

And believe me, they are just phases. Phases of never-ending torment that make you want to rip your hair out and scream into the void. But hey, at least it's just a phase, right?

Here's a little skit to showcase our suffering, starring our very own ungrateful brats:

Setting: A chaotic boys' bedroom with two beds and a large dresser under a window, probably drawn by one of the kids in therapy later in life.

Mother: "Good night, boys." (closes door, already fed up with life)

3-Year-Old: (shouting, like the little devil he is) "Let’s have a party!"

4-Year-Old: "Yes! And let’s pound on the walls like we're in prison and our code name is 'El Diablo'!"

Mother: (opens door, looking like she's about to explode) "Boys, that’s enough. Go to bed before I count to three."

3-Year-Old: "Ok, Mom. We'll whisper, but only because we're planning something evil." (Mother exits, thinking she has won. Little does she know, the night is young.)

3-Year-Old: (not whispering, because rules are for losers) "Let’s have a party, again!"

4-Year-Old: "Yes, and let's destroy our beds and jump like monkeys! We'll show them who's boss!"

Mother: (loses her sanity along with her patience) "Boys! That's enough! Go to sleep, or you'll wish you never existed!"

3-Year-Old: "Ok, Mom. We'll just quietly plot our escape."

4-Year-Old: "It was him. He made me do it." (points accusingly at his brother, already learning the art of manipulation)

Mother: (gives up, knowing she is outnumbered and outplayed) "Fine, do whatever you want. I'm going to eat my feelings." (Exits, probably to stuff her face with chocolate, the only thing keeping her sane at this point.)

3-Year-Old: "Party time!"

4-Year-Old: "Yeah! Let's burst into flames and run to the bathroom! We'll flush the toilet a million times and eat toothpaste! It's a party in our mouths and a rave in here!"

Father: (sitting in the living room, witnessing the chaos through the walls) "Do they think they’re being stealthy?"

Mother: "Haha, yeah right. They're probably just planning our demise."

Father: (gets up to intervene, but it's too late. The toddlers are already fleeing the bathroom like wildfire, employing the age-old 'if I can't see you, you can't see me' tactic) "Stay in bed, you little rascals."

3-Year-Old: (actually whispering, for once) "Do you think he saw us?"

4-Year-Old: "No way, Jose. We're invisible."

3-Year-Old: "Okay, then let's party!"

4-Year-Old: "Yes, and let's push everything off our dresser and stomp like wild riverdancers! We'll show them what real chaos looks like!"

3-Year-Old: "Brilliant! And then we'll destroy your bed, too, and jump like monkeys again! It's monkey business all night long!"

4-Year-Old: "Whoa, let's not get carried away. One step at a time, my tiny frenemy."

Mother: (has had enough, probably drank all the wine) "GET DOWN HERE, YOU LITTLE…"

Father: (enters, looking like the hulk, ready to discipline the kids, aka read them a bedtime story)

The End.

Until the next night, when the war continued.

Caleb Harris and his poor, exhausted wife live in Pflugerville with their seven (yes, seven) children. May God help them. Comments or suggestions for future columns can be emailed to thoughtsforcaleb@gmail.com if you feel like joining their misery.