Somehow bedtime around here has disintegrated into a rigorous re-enactment of CSI: Miami with a dash of Last Comic Standing and a prodigious sprinkle of Amazing Race. I don’t know how it happened really; the whole crazy nighttime routine that recently spiraled completely into the nether regions of hell’s eternal fire.
Let me lay it down for you. This was last night:
Me and The Rock (in melodic and upbeat unision): Girls! Time for bed!
The Girls (falling prostate on the floor while beating their chests): Why God why? What did we ever do to you? Must you torment us so? Are you trying to make us die?
Me and The Rock (continuing to feign positivity): Ha ha! You should be actresses! OK. Time for bed.
The Girls (playing dead): Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Meeeeeehhhhhh. Bleeerrrrrrr. We are zombies. We don’t sleep. We eat people. They are delicious and chewy! Argh! Is this a people heart? It’s zesty and tangy!
Me and The Rock (concertedly trying to keep smiles on our ever-suffering faces): Oh you sillies. OK. Time for bed.
The Girls (crying voluminous tears): You don’t love us! Why don’t you love us? We love you. But you don’t love us!
Me and The Rock (adopting a serious, OK-we’ve had-it-now tone): Girls. Enough. It’s time for bed.
(Then I whisper guiltily:) But we do love you.
(And my husband says under his breath:) Don’t do that! They’ll know they’ve got you.
The Girls (making boo-boo kitty faces): Mommy? If you loved us, you’d let us stay up until the cows come home.
Me and The Rock (wondering when, exactly, cows come home): The cows have been home since 8 o’clock pacific time. Now get upstairs.
The Girls (making bizarre Paula Abdul-robot-jazz-hand motions): Bow! Ka-boom! Blah! Boo!
Me and The Rock (doing whatever people who lose their shit do): GET UPSTAIRS.
The Girls (limply dragging their feet behind them): We broke our legs in a playground accident. We should go to the doctor.
Me (frustrated): So you both broke your legs? In a playground accident? How do you explain the fact that you go to different schools and thus have different playgrounds? When did this coincidental and simultaneous playground mishap occur?
The Rock (stupefyingly looking at me): Really?
The Girls (enthusiastically): So we can go to the doctor? Does he have lollipops?
Me and The Rock (completely and totally without our shit): LAST WARNING.
The Girls (whipping a stuffed cat on each other’s faux broken femurs): Kitty Die-Die! Kitty Die-Die!
Me and The Rock (looking like Mr. and Mrs. Stoneface McSternerson): All right. ENOUGH. Let’s go.
The Girls (being carried upstairs): No! No! Nooooooooooooooooo! No! Nonononononononononononononono. NOOOOO! NO! NoooooNoooooNooooo.
Me and The Rock (wondering if that leave-your-kid-at-the-fire station law is still in effect): That’s it now. Get in bed. Be quiet. Go to sleep. See ya when we see ya.
The Girls (continuing to sob loudly and with verve): NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Nooooooo! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! Noooooo! Nononononononononononono! NOOOOO!
Me and The Rock (to each other): You want a dart gun with that tranquilizer?
The Girls (blowing snot, rolling to and fro, kicking the mattress, spitting pea soup out their ears): You hate us! Hate us! HAAAAAAATTTEEEEE. Hate us. Why? Why? Why? We’re just kids! You are destroying our lives! *blubber blubber blubber*
Me and The Rock (gouging out the parts of our brains responsible for hearing stuff): QUIET! Or Kitty Die-Die gets it!
The Girls (quieting down) (still staying quiet) (not making a peep):
Me and The Rock (putting the brain-gouging implements in their respective Caboodles compartments): Ahhhhhh. Finally.
The Girls (calling out in a Rodney Dangerfield voice): Hey Smiley! Can we get a kiss?
Sadly, the preceding was entirely true without modification or comic exaggeration.
Send more dart guns and brain-maiming devices STAT.