Worth its weight in chocolate milk

Most kids go through a bedtime rebellion phase at some point in the post toddler years. I have read about it. I have heard other parents talk about it in hushed, frail voices. As if you were talking about a heinous crime that was committed by someone standing just a few feet away. I even thought I had experienced a bit of it myself when our oldest son, at around 3 years, wanted my wife or I to sit outside the door to his bedroom until he fell asleep. Recently I came to find that this was not at all the terror of which those other poor parents had whimpered about. Not even close.

Roughly 3 weeks ago my middle son, who had just turned 4, got out of bed and made his way to the stairs. Listening for my wife and I he followed the sound of a Tivo'd sitcom and slinked down the stairs to the first floor. Once in the living room he crawled like a Navy Seal on a stealth mission around the back of the sectional to the corner. At this point my wife pointed this chain of events out to me because I was engrossed in the previous week's episode of Rule's of Engagement. Funny stuff. I paused the show and got up to see what the intrusion into Mommy & Daddy's time, or as I like to call it, happy hour, was all about. Brody had positioned himself beside the couch, under a blanket and beside a stool. It was a pretty good vantage point. When I asked him what was up he said it...the statement we would come to loathe...."I want you to lay in my bed."


The next 30 minutes was spent negotiating, arguing and pleading for our son to get back in bed. The entire time he kept on with his new mantra, progressively increasing the volume and raising the tone until it cut into my skull and turned me into nothing more than a sweaty mess of my former self. "I want you to lay in my bed." "I WANT YOU TO LAY IN MY BED" Now the baby was awake in the next room, my oldest was awake in the bunk above and the neighbors I am sure had their fingers on the dial to call children's services to stop whatever atrocities must be causing this riot. Finally, exhausted, defeated and still wondering how the sitcom ended, I gave up. I caved. I crawled into the disheveled lower bunk with my sweaty little master and passed out.


This was the routine for the next week. Sure, we got better at caving in and a few nights just walked in and laid down with him or let him crawl up in beside us without a fight. If he were a sound sleeper this might not have been so bad but Brody is a kicker, an elbower...a violent sleeper. We were sacrificing hours of much needed sleep for the sake of avoiding Armageddon. Then came the realization that if we didn't put our foot down, if we didn't draw a line in the sand, if we didn't fight to take back the night, we were going to be stuck with this arrangement for the next 14 years. We were never going to be able to have happy hour again. This was not acceptable. This was war.


My wife and I discussed the options, strengthened our resolve and decided it was now or never.


This was two weeks ago. The first night was an hour of me literally holding my son in his bed while he screamed, hit, kicked and I'm pretty sure spoke in tongues about halfway through it. At the point at which I was at the end of my rope and ready to cave, my wife came in to my rescue. She says that she was only able to swoop in and save me because I had worn him out. I think she has a gift. She's like the possessed child whisperer. She changed his PJs, as they were drenched in sweat and tears and I did the same. This was to be repeated in various forms and durations every night for the next two weeks, until last night.


With school fast approaching my wife resurrected the award board. Stars for good deeds accomplished throughout the day. Things like picking up toys, brushing teeth, being polite and yes, going to bed. My oldest completed his goal of 3 rows of stars Tuesday and chose to pick from the "prize bag". Brody had just 3 stars left at that point and we asked him what he wanted as his prize when he reached the goal. "I want a big jug of chocolate milk." Really? This was his brass ring, this was his chosen prize. We explained to him that all he had to do was go to bed IN HIS OWN BED and the stars would be his and he and my wife would take off first thing in the morning to the local grocery store and pick up his prize. I laughed it off as yet another ploy that would be forgotten once the screaming started. I thought it was a cute side note to a sad story of unwatched shows and long, exhausting nights.


Last night, with the thought of an entire gallon jug of chocolate milk fresh on his mind and a single tear running down his cheek, Brody tightened the grip on his stuffed puppy as we pulled the sheet up, said our good nights and stepped out of the room. There were muffled sounds of whimpers, like a puppy put out in his doghouse for the first time and then after around 10 minutes, silence. After 3 weeks of nightly hell in my home there was silence. We quietly tiptoed down the stairs and turned on the TV. After a few long minutes to see if the silence would stick we brought up our list of mental junk food and exhaled as the show started. Ahhhhh.


This morning Brody got up, walked into the bathroom as I was shaving and with a smile from ear to ear stated boldly and proudly, "I get my chocolate milk when Mommy gets up!" and he did. As his brother and I were finishing up our cereal this morning he burst through the backdoor lugging in a jug that weighed about half as much as he does. He will drink most of it today if he has his way. He might share a little, maybe. But it worked. He did it.


Now to see what tonight brings.