“Dear Children, Please Go to Bed”

By 8 p.m., I’m done. Like, stick-a-fork-in-me done. The kind of done where your body feels like it’s been carrying a backpack full of bricks all day, and your brain has the processing power of a potato. You’d think after working all day, shuttling kids to practices, making meals, and answering 1,276 “Mom?” questions, I’d deserve some peace. But no. My children treat 8 p.m. as the perfect time to turn into caffeinated circus performers.

Why, oh why, do they seem most alive when I am most dead inside?

Maybe it’s the thrill of bedtime rebellion, or maybe they’ve somehow tapped into my last nerve and decided to bounce on it like a trampoline. Whatever the reason, come 8 p.m., they’re buzzing around, inventing entirely new ways to delay bedtime, test my patience, and provoke existential crises.

“Mom, I need cold lunch for tomorrow!”
“Mom, my sock feels weird!”
“Mom, can you help me find my stuffed llama that I haven’t thought about in three years but now I suddenly can’t live without?”

Meanwhile, I’m standing there, dead-eyed, muttering something like, “Go. To. Bed.”

The thing is, I need them to go to sleep—not just for their sake (yes, I love you and want you rested and healthy, blah blah blah)—but for mine. I need that sweet, quiet alone time to unwind, stare blankly at Netflix, and maybe, if I’m feeling ambitious, fold half a basket of laundry before passing out. And here’s the kicker: if you don’t go to bed, neither can I.

But my kids? They don’t care about my exhaustion. They’ll happily argue about the injustices of bedtime while doing gymnastics on the couch. They’ll ask deep, philosophical questions about life just as I’m trying to turn off the lights. They’ll suddenly need to talk about the thing that happened at school three weeks ago, and if I don’t listen right now, they’ll be emotionally scarred forever.

So here I am, at the end of my rope, begging the universe for mercy while simultaneously Googling “why are kids insane at night.”

To be clear, I love my children. They’re wonderful little humans full of curiosity, energy, and spirit. But after 8 p.m.? They’re too much. They become wild, uncontainable forces of nature, and all I want is for them to brush their teeth and close their eyes.

Every night, I try to be zen about it. I promise myself I’ll stay calm. But by 8:30, my inner monologue is screaming: “I CANNOT WITH THESE PEOPLE. GO TO BED BEFORE I SELL ALL YOUR TOYS AND YOUR VIDEO GAMES.” And at that point, I’m not even pretending to be patient. I’m ushering them to their rooms like a cranky flight attendant shoving passengers down the aisle.

So, dear children, please understand this: I love you endlessly, but my capacity for nonsense expires promptly at 8 p.m. If you see me after that time, I’m not your mom anymore—I’m just a tired shell of a person trying to survive until tomorrow.

Now go to sleep before I lose whatever shred of sanity I have left. Please and thank you.