Ok, I admit it--I love the sweet sounds of a toddler who's gone to bed. I usually let D take a toy to bed--it's usually this crazy annoying apple with lights and buttons and the most irritating simulated voice ever! But, that apple means that I've finally clocked out for the day. I feel so bad, though. After working to teach other people's kids all day I pick up my little boy, drive home, cook dinner, serve dinner, snuggle, bathe, read, tuck in, cook dinner, serve dinner (for the adults) and then I get to sit down. The whole time my brain is like, "PLEASE! Can I shut down now? We're in physical pain, here. Why aren't we sitting down? Why aren't we soaking it up in a hot bath? Why aren't we in pajama pants with our make-up off and our hair piled up on top of our head!?" (Apparently, my brain thinks it is its own entity, hence the plural first person pronoun.)
So, here I am. I've got Castle on the DVR, dinner is on its way, and the little man is asleep. I guess he is--I don't here that torturous apple. And I'm enjoying it. That's right. Part of me feels bad because I figure that after a day separated from my precious man that I should keep him up as late as he can stand it so that we can spend time together. The other part is all, "No, he needs to stick to his routine...that's the real reason we put him to bed at 7:00 on the nose. It has nothing to do with the fact that the couch has been talking to us since we walked in the door. Beckoning us to rest on its soft cushiony goodness." (That usage of "we" is in the regal sense--just in case you're wondering.) But both sides are thinking, "Aaaah. Finally. Bring on the sweet oblivion."