Bedtime: The Horror Story Nobody Warned Me About

They say bedtime is a “routine.” Ha. Bedtime in this house is less of a routine and more of a survival game where I try not to lose my sanity, my will to live, or another set of felt-tip pens.

Let’s start with the eldest two. They live in their very own done-out log cabins (posh word for sheds) in the garden. The rule is simple: if you can’t get yourself up for school in the morning, you lose your cabin privilege and you’re back in the house, squashed in with your younger siblings. Harsh? Maybe. Effective? Absolutely. They’ve never moved so fast when an alarm goes off.

Then we come to the youngest three, otherwise known as “chaos on legs.”

My daughter has a million and one craft projects happening at once — glue, glitter, beads, scissors, tape, you name it. Bedtime can’t even begin until I’ve convinced her that “cleaning up” doesn’t mean shoving it all under the bed like a tiny hoarder. Usually, I stick her in the shower and do a quick blitz of her room while she’s not looking. It’s the only way we stand a chance.

Meanwhile, the youngest child is circling my feet like a pickpocket-in-training, sneaking around to squirrel away his sister’s prized possessions. If Fagin was still around, he’d have this kid front and centre of the Oliver Twist crew.

The 7-year-old is my easiest one at night… sort of. He’s got his zoomies to burn off, usually involving laps around his room and the stairs. Once that’s out of his system, he’s golden. I usually keep him busy fetching things for me — slippers, phone charger, random stuff — and he thinks he’s being helpful while I’m just buying myself five minutes of peace.

The baby of the bunch (who isn’t really a baby anymore) is now sharing a bunk with the 7-year-old. This is new. He’s slept in my bed his whole life. Yes, I know, I’ve made a rod for my own back. Yes, I know he’s clingy. But honestly? I chose sleep over stress. I’d rather he was in with me and we both got 8–10 hours than force him into a bed and deal with a midnight meltdown that wakes the entire street.

But lately, it’s been hard. He’s up and down, asking to come back into my bed. No screaming fits (small miracles), but the constant back-and-forth means neither of us is sleeping properly. So, the last few nights? He’s been back in with me. I know. I caved. Don’t judge me — or do, but at least I’m well-rested enough to care.

Final Thoughts (and a Disclaimer)

Bedtime in this house isn’t peaceful. It isn’t a gentle winding down of the day. It’s survival, it’s bribery, it’s negotiating with tiny terrorists who can smell weakness.

But somehow, eventually, everyone does sleep. And when they do, I get a brief glimpse of peace and think, “Maybe I’m not doing such a terrible job after all.” Until, of course, someone wakes up thirsty, hungry, or “just remembered” their homework.

Send wine.
Chocolate.
Or both.