Once again, I find myself increasingly frustrated with the restraints placed upon me due to my age. I don't think that just because I am four it means I am incapable of making major decisions for myself, especially when I suspect those who are saying things like "YOU NEED TO EAT HEALTHY FOODS" often sneak m&m's when I'm not looking. (I can hear the distinct crinkling of wrappers and smell the chocolate-y goodness on their breaths, I swear I can.)
But really, I would like to discuss bedtime. Is there anything more restrictive, anything else designed so efficiently to strip me of my very basic rights of liberty and the pursuit of happiness?
No. No, there is not.
Apparently, I "used" to be a good sleeper. I hear my mom and dad talk about it. "Remember when he would take a nap, every day, from 1 to 3, and then go to bed at 8 and sleep until 7 in the morning?" my mom will sometimes say in wistful tones after she has forced me to lay back down for the 23rd time.
Yeah, I remember it myself, Mother. THAT WAS WHEN YOU USED TO PUT ME IN A BED WITH BARS ON IT.
I won the no-nap battle at the tender and precocious age of 2. Admittedly, though, winning this battle of no-naps often left me tired, and I would succumb to sleep around 6:30, and sleep heavily for 13 hours or more. Mom even started to like this better than naps - called it a "hell of a trade off" and got used to doing things like taking long baths, watching Law and Order: SVU and enjoying the evening in general. Lol.
Because I was still "such a good sleeper!" Mom didn't say much when I started to stay up until 7:00. And then 7:30. She would tell Dad "It's winter. He can't go outside and play like a maniac and wear himself out." Although I object to the term "maniac," I will agree that winter does curtail my intense activities, and may contribute to a later bedtime.
But then I wanted to stay up until 8:00 or maybe even 8:30, and Mom was like, "No."
That's it. Just "no."
And thus began our battle.
I usually begin by offering her reasonable excuses of why I can't really be expected to go to bed. I patiently explain that my pillows are dangerous, or that my eyes simply won't close - because they won't. I cannot be expected to control that. I offer to do chores for her, or get up to helpfully remind her to do her own chores. I try to convince her that I have an illness, such as iritis, which needs to be tended to immediately, or that I obviously cannot be expected to sleep without a very specific Hot Wheels, which, although I have 2,987 Hot Wheels, it's a specific make and model that I actually and truly need in order to sleep.
None of that has ever worked.
But lately, I'm pretty sure bedtime has become an even graver matter, and she doesn't understand, Diary. First of all, my bedroom may be awesome during the day, but after dark, it is the most dangerous place on earth. The toys that I love so much in the clear, shining light of day become threatening, unknown hulks of danger at night. They move. And there are, without a doubt, monsters in my closet. Giants, as well. My closet has long been a din of supernatural and super-terrible activity after sundown - that is an established fact.
If the doors are closed, I can hear them. I sit up in bed and scream, "MOM, I HEAR SOMETHING WRONG IN MY CLOSET! MOOOOM! I HEAR SOMETHING WROOOOONG!"
And so she slides open the doors (I have to hand it to her - she is very, very brave), and, of course, all the bad things flee momentarily. She'll leave the closet door open, but it's a sliding door, so only half of it can be open, and even with the light on, that is sometimes worse, and so I sit up in bed and scream, "MOM! MOM! I SEE SOMETHING! I SEE SOMETHING WRONG, MOM!"
And although this isn't a trick, per se, I have learned that timing can sometimes work in my favor. Early on in the night, when I can still hear Mom roaming around the house (probably eating secret m&m's), she responds to my desperate cries...but leaves me in bed until I finally pass out, probably from fear or some secret sleep trick the monsters do. But if I accidentally fall asleep with no fuss, and wake up to a silent house...or wake up when Daddy's alarm clock goes off in the middle of the night because of "work" - and then start in about monsters, she usually just stumbles into my room, all willy-nilly and banging into walls (she could consider opening her eyes, but who am I to criticize?) and either collapses into my bed (good) or picks me up and stumbles back into her bed (even gooder).
But last week she had an "idea." I'm sure others will agree that there is nothing quite as horrible as a mom with an "idea." She foisted me off on my Mina, talking all excited about "You get to go to the movies! Mina will get you popcorn! Yay, Mina and Bubby time!" and, like an idiot, I got all excited, too - not knowing that she was going to destroy my life while I was gone.
Diary, she wrecked my room.
Admittedly, the new design leaves me a lot more floor space, where I can build gigantic structures using every available clean piece of linen and then stash a massive number of kitchen utensils in them, but I also suspect that the reason there is more floor space is because there are less toys. I can't put my finger on what, exactly, has disappeared, but many, many things have, I am certain.
She also had the nerve to organize my things into categories that may make sense to her, but not to me. For example, she put all my Hot Wheels into one container. Why would she do that? She completely stripped me of the joy I get when randomly coming across a long-lost Hot Wheels when I least expect it. She also put all my tools into another box. I ask you, why would I need 4 hammers in one spot? Doesn't it make more sense to have them stashed in various places throughout my room, so that one is always handy?
And, worst of all, she had Dad remove the closet doors...which, I can see where she was going with this and all, but then she moved my bed so that it's partly in the closet. My books are "conveniently" located on one side, and a light, and a shelf that now holds all my stuffed animals that I love-love-love during the day but morph into menacing creatures with beady eyes that prompt me to demand Mom remove them nightly. It looks cute, I'm sure, all cozy and inviting...like, "Oh, come lay on me and look at books and maybe you'll get sleepy and sleep and sleep and sleeeeeeeeeeep."
Ugh.
What would make Mom think that placing my bed in the place where the monsters come from would be a good idea?!? This is a fail, even for her.
So the battle continues. Lately, my excuse has been "My bed smells like grease." I thought it was a good one - a few weeks ago, my dad "fried" something and my mom spent the next two days in a frenzy of cleaning and laundering, muttering that the whole place smelled like a bad fry-kitchen, and even opened up all the windows and we stayed outside so the place could "air out." But apparently she's the only one who has a sensitive enough nose to detect grease, because she didn't even bother to sniff my bedding, but said "I just washed everything yesterday. It does not smell like grease."
But I think it does, Diary. It smells like grease. And what does she say? "Breathe through your mouth and close your eyes, Justin Ryan."
Heartless.
I'm stumped for now, but I won't let this defeat me. She may have won the battle, but we are still at war.
Sincerely,
Junior
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