I love bedtime. I live for bedtime. In my world, bedtime makes the rest of the day worthwhile.

And each night, bedtime comes. Children are put in comfy pj’s featuring any number of popular Disney/Pixar characters. Approximately 412 bedtime stories are read, again featuring any number of popular Disney/Pixar characters. Sippy cups of water are left on nightstands. “Babies” are tucked in. There are prayers, kisses, trips to the bathroom, more kisses, hugs, tuck-ins, another kiss and then the husband and I are free.

Free! Free to watch what we want on TV! Free to eat our dinner without little raccoons trying to pick food off of our plates! Free to have an adult conversation without interruption! Free to use words like “shit” and “stupid” and “dummy” without the “We don’t say those words in this house” police reprimanding us!

But about fifteen minutes after the husband and I slump in front of the TV, patting ourselves on the back for another successful parenting day (if by “successful” you mean, all the kids are still alive, which I do), kids start wandering out of their rooms.

They need a toy. Or a book. Or a wooden mixing spoon. Or a roll of toilet paper. (Go ahead and laugh – in the last week, my kids have brought all of these things to bed. Pick your battles.)

So I tell them, “Go to bed!”

No response.

My voice is getting louder. “I mean it. Go to bed.”

“But I just need one thing . . . “

And now I’m pissed. “If I count to 3 and you’re not in your bed, you will not (insert fun activity planned for the next day) tomorrow.”

“OK, I’m going, in a minute when I get this one thing . . . “

I did not have these kids so I could be ignored. “That’s it! 1 . . . 2 . . . if I say 3, you’re not going to be happy.”

“But moooooooooooooom . . . “

I’m done. “1 . . . 2 . . . 3!”

Cue screaming and 3 sets of feet running back into bedrooms.

Fifteen minutes later, we do it all again. The sequence repeats 3-4 times a night, until about an hour after “bedtime,” and they are all finally in their beds for the night.

Why won’t these kids just go to bed?

In the interests of full disclosure, bedtime is less of a struggle than it used to be. When the twins were about 22 months old, my son started climbing out of his crib. Since we didn’t want him to fall out and crack his skull wide open, we took off the side of his crib, turning it into a toddler bed.

For reasons that remain a mystery to me to this day, we also took the side off of my daughter’s crib, even though she showed absolutely no interest in climbing out. Our mistake.

This one simple act ruined bedtime at our house. My previously perfectly bedtimed trained kids became monsters. They went from a 6:30pm bedtime to running around at 10:00 at night.

It was like a party at the Playboy Mansion with all the nudity (theirs), bedhopping (theirs) and drinking (mine, all mine). This went on for months until my hormone addled brain (I had a newborn during this time) figured out that these kids needed separate rooms. (At which point I gave myself an “I shoulda had a V8” smack in the head.)

When compared to the Playboy party days, I suppose I should be grateful that everyone remains dressed, and the only bed they try to jump in is mine. And I should be grateful that by 8:30, the husband and I are indeed free for the evening.

I am even more grateful for wine.