Rachel Bertsche - The Kids Are in Bed: Finding Time for Yourself in the Chaos of Parenting

On the night I decide to sit down and start writing this book, everything seems to be going according to plan. My husband is out of town for work but my kids are in good spirits, no one is sick or in need of a last-minute glass of milk, and it appears that by 8 p.m. Ill have two sleepingor at least quietchildren and Ill be able to enjoy some time to myself. At 6:55, I take my two-year-old son, Will, upstairs and go through the usual routine: two stories, two rounds of Rockabye Baby, and our nighttime refrain that combines the titles of two of his favorite books.

I love you, I say.

I love you, he repeats.

To the moon and back.

Moon and back.

All the time, I say.

All the time.

By 7:15, Im downstairs giving my five-year-old daughter, Maggie, her five-minute warning. Those five minutes turn to fifteen (my faultI got lost in a Facebook black hole while Maggie played with her paper dolls), but we make it upstairs easily enough, go potty and brush teeth and read two books and sing two songs. Were on track for our usual 7:45 lights out, when Ill finally have one hour to myselftime that Ive been anticipating all daybefore I need to tackle housework and writing work. But then I start our usual hug, kiss, and squeeze routine, and things start to go south.

I dont want you to go, Maggie whines.

But I have to, you know that, I reply.

I want you to go to your room. My bedroom is across the hall from hers.

Mommy has to work, I explain. I dont like to work in my bedroom. My bedroom is for sleeping. If I start doing work in my bedroom, Ill be typing, typing, typing, and then... I pantomime falling asleep at my computer, loud snoring and all.

This elicits a good giggle but it isnt enough to keep Maggie calm as I start to leave her room. My daughter is generally a good sleeper, and shes almost always fine with bedtime. Tonight, I can tell, is not going to be always.

I give Maggie another hug and kiss and tell her Im leaving. Thats when the tears start. Im sad! she says. I miss Daddy. Daddy will see her when he gets home tomorrow, I say, but thats not enough. I want to say good night to him now! So I do something I never do, and offer to call him for a quick good-night.

This, it turns out, is a big mistake. Huge. When my husband, Matt, doesnt pick up, the wailing starts. Ill give you one last hug, I say. Then Im going downstairs.

In the kitchen, where I do most of my writing, I look around at the mess left over from dinner. My plan is to do a quick ten-minute cleanup, then take sixty minutes for myself to lie on the couch and watch a TV show before buckling down to write, load the dishwasher, and get Maggies lunch ready for school tomorrow. I need that hour to refresh and relax before starting on the next to-doto gear up for the transition from bedtime-mom mode into getting-shit-done mode.