I certainly don’t feel the way about bedtime at 30 that I did at 3, 13, or 23. That said, I was never one to scoff when my parents told me that it was time for bed. In fact, I enjoyed sleep as a child, a teenager, and even as an adult. Sleep meant time to recharge, time to relax, and time to dream. Always a hopeful writer, it meant time to think and to put my ideas together.
Now bedtime means getting the girls to bed. They normally go down around 7 or 7:30, and there are many a night when I’m inclined to follow them. A busy day for them means a tiring day for me. And there’s always the knowledge in the back of my mind that no matter what time I go to bed, they’ll be up and full of energy at 8 AM.
So I balance my love of sleep with my love of alone time. Because as much as I love the girls, I love the time when they are sleeping. Time to write, time to be with Marcus, time for adult conversation, and time for knitting. I’m known to stay up well past the hour that would be reasonable for a mother of two just to cherish those moments.
The parenting/motherhood balance translates everywhere, it seems. Bedtime is no exception.