Preparing for Battle

I just finished putting the Muffin down for the night. Apparently, only sissies go to bed without a fight -- at least that's what BabyDaddy says. But then, it's fine for him to say that. He gets to sit on his arse and play Perfect Dark on the gosh-forsaken X-Box, while I try desperately to hold on to what could quite easily be mistaken for a wriggling, wet baby seal. If I've ever wanted to chop off his man parts, it's during what BD and I "affectionately" refer to as THE BEDTIME WARS. (I must always type it in all caps -- that's how I picture it in my head.) THE BEDTIME WARS usually begin between 7pm and 7:30pm, when I start trying to lure Lil' C into the tub.

Mommy: Let's go play with your bath markers!

Lil' C: No No Mommy.

Mommy: Don't you want to go play in the water? Mommy
will get out Bath-time Tiger and Pooh!

Lil' C: No bath.

Mommy: What about Bath-time Little Einsteins?
Wouldn't that be fun? (This is usually where the tiniest note of
desperation can be detected in my voice).

Lil C: Playing Mommy! NO BATH!

At this point, I resort to brute force -- I pick up Lil' C, and carry him, usually screaming (he now has decided he will protest all unwanted actions by squealing OW! OW! Oooooow! Like someone is tearing his arm off -- It makes a lovely little scene at the Wal-Mart, let me assure you.) So, I finally get him in the tub. As soon as he hits the water, he is happy. He splashes, adds more Mickey Mouse bubbles, draws on the walls, and points out various body parts. "Knee, Mommy! KNEE!" Yes, sweetheart, but that's actually your elbow... Then, comes THE BEDTIME WARS, part deux -- Getting out of the tub. And Lord, if you think it was a fit trying to get him in, just thank your lucky constellations that you're not there to get him out. He knows what's coming when I start gathering up the towel, and he scrunches under the faucet to sit on the drain, so I can't unplug it. I usually lure him to the other side of the tub with a toy, and quickly pull the stopper. Lights, camera, action. This is where we get the stamping of the feet, shaking of the fists, and the screaming, OH THE SCREAMING. "Water! WAAAATTTTERRRR! NO BYE-BYE! NO ALL GONE! WAAAATTTER!" This little interlude is punctuated with Lil' C frantically moving bath toys, as if the water is hiding beneath them, attempts to cover the drain with his little hand, and flopping around on the tub floor like a wounded mermaid. As the last of the water swirls away, he will lay his cheek next to the drain, and sniffle out, "No more water....noooo more water." We go through this every night. Of course, the Battle of the Bath is not the end of THE BEDTIME WARS. We still have to fight the Please-put-on-your-Pajama-Pants Skirmish, the Your-Toothbrush-is-not-for-your-Hair Conflict, and the You-Cannot-Have-Another-Pickle Crusade. (He's really into pickles these days.) Then, when all of that is done, we head into his room, armed with his firetruck pillow and sippy. Usually, if I'm lucky, he's down in about 15 minutes. Then, I'm free to stomp, (albeit quietly), back to the living room, and that worthless BabyDaddy. A few nights ago, he looked over and said, "Well, it went a little easier tonight, don't you think?" I threw a Tonka Truck at his head. Lucky for him, I missed.