This evening while talking with Ivy, who is 11 going on 16, the subject of bedtimes came up. Specifically, my bedtime.
I go to bed at midnight. This seems slightly early for my night owl standards but fairly manageable considering I have to get the girls to school in the morning. Ivy, however, was appalled.
I was informed under no uncertain terms that she goes to bed at NINE o’clock and that is PLENTY late.
I, always arguing for my night owl ways, pointed out that there are many things, many things that I do after she goes to bed. I work out, I blog, I read books, I write books (shameless plug), I even, occasionally, clean the kitchen (really, super-duper occasionally).
Ivy, while eating the dinner I made her, then demanded to know what I do all day if I do all that after she goes to bed.
I responded with what I fear were wild, crazy, mom eyes and arm gesticulations around the house. “Everything else!”
“Well,” said Ivy in a voice dripping with the confidence of the young, “you should just try and get more done during the day.”
And then I looked at my beast of a to-do list and died a little bit inside.
Of course I didn’t let her know that, I just told her to hurry up and finish her dinner so she had time to play before it was her bedtime.