I've never been big on strict schedules or routines, they stress me out. But when it came to bedtime, we always had a nice little thing going: stories, a few little songs, snuggles, goodnight kiss and see ya on the flipside. Child goes to sleep on her own; I go downstairs patting myself on the back. Oh, but now, now, I've dug myself in a hole so deep that I'm fairly certain I'll be commando rolling out of my kid's bed and slithering into the hallway to avoid the dreaded creaky floorboard until she's at least 13.
She asks me to stay two minutes longer. And I do. She asks for two more, and I say ok. 56 minutes later and three failed attempts at escape and I'm still there. Why? Guilt. Why else? There's something about those sleepy, and I'll say it, usually fake, cries I can no longer resist. This, from a woman who deeply believes in the power of sleep training! Man. My spine still seems functional during most daytime interactions, so maybe I still have a shot of her escaping spoiled bratdom. If not, I guess I can always call the Supernanny.