I don’t know how it rolls in your household but my old man’s bedtime routine is diabolical. It takes about two hours longer than my own ‘wham bam get in bed or else you’re dead..’ approach and consists of rolling around on the floor, laughing hysterically, a lot of tickling and running around like crazed puppies on speed. I can cook a meal, do the washing, watch two episodes of EastEnders, and the Old Git will still be getting the mini monsters ready for bed.
Quite frankly it doesn’t bother me if I’m off out with the girls… as long as I don’t get any phone calls from the kids wailing down the phone and demanding that I come home…my phone’s normally on mute anyway [evil laugh]. But if I’m at home and I ask the Old Git to put them to bed so that I can get on with the zillion other things I have to do, it narks me off when I can hear them having a party upstairs. Why can’t he just get on with the task in hand? Why over excite them before bed? And why does it always have to end with me stomping up the stairs and yelling at them to get a move on?
My evenings, post bedtime, are the equivalent of a relaxing spa day but without all the spa facilities. I like to switch off, chill out and recharge. So if the kids eat into that time too much I start twitching like a deranged person. But for the Old Git it’s a totally different experience. He hardly gets to see them during the week and so the weekends are precious time spent with them. Even though it pains me and goes against all my Hitler tendencies, I suppose the odd night spent where the kids run riot isn’t going to kill me. If it’s good for father/daughter/son bonding, then who am I to piss on that parade?