8,614 Reasons Mom Never Goes The F*ck To Bed

The kitchen clock is the only one I see as I deposit more ice cubes into my glass. The big hand is on the outfield, while the little one rests by the bleachers. I attempt to calculate, but my mind refuses. Annoyed, I head to the living room to find the easy to read digital numbers on the cable box.

Bedtime in 15 minutes I think as I sit on the couch. Tonight Mama needs her beauty sleep. Tonight I am going to win at bedtime. Tonight I am going to sleep like I did after a collegiate night of drunken debauchery.

But before I catch up with the Sandman, do I have time for one teeny, tiny 30-minute show? If I watch a 30 minute show On Demand, it will only take 22 minutes which gets me to bed nine minutes past my bedtime. Of course if you figure in brushing teeth (and flossing which the dentist tells me is now mandatory given my age), and rinsing, but not washing, the wine glass because really who uses it but me? that adds at least ten additional minutes.

And look, my wine glass is still half-full and now I only have 10 minutes to drink it.

I refuse to dump perfectly good wine down the sink it would be like throwing away one of the kids half-eaten candy bars. I think about pounding it, but I'm no college kid. Besides, pounding is best with hard liquor, beer and Kamikaze shots. The wine is staring back at me, it's pale pink phosphorescence glitters in the overhead stove light.

What would I do while drinking the wine if not watch TV? I could read, but how would I turn the pages and hold my glass? Looks like reading is out. Sorry classic literature sitting on the bathroom counter. I know I've been attempting to read you for three weeks and our time together has been limited to brief encounters while I hide from the children when my husband returns home. You've been around since the late 1800's, you'll be here tomorrow. Fare thee well until we meet behind closed and locked doors.

Maybe I should just go to bed. Wait, I'll miss an episode of that new show. It's a spin off from the other show--about the zombies. If I don't watch it now I won't be able to watch it until at least 10:45 tomorrow night and then I'll be exactly where I am right now. If I try to watch it earlier the kids may catch me. I'm pretty sure allowing your children to watch zombies feast on humans is child abuse. The time is now. Carpe Diem. Decision made.

I'll just top my wine off and get a few chips. No need to go hungry while watching my show. Shit, I hear the two-year-old. No, it can't be. Maybe it was the wind or the cat or a pack of wild coyotes--we do live in the woods. No, it's the two-year-old.

I retrieve my boy from his crib. "Don't feel good," he whines. I bring him downstairs where my wine sits looking lonely and confused.

"Want show, Mama," the two-year-old pushes his body closer to mine. I suggest Scooby Doo, he counters with Spiderman--we meet in the middle with The Brady Bunch. He falls asleep halfway through. Maybe I can still catch the zombies. I tuck him in and tiptoe out of the room. I would make a great spy. Maybe in my next life.

"Mommy," the four-year-old whispers, "I need to poop." After entering the bathroom, sitting her on the toilet and listening to her sing three songs with missing, jumbled, incorrect and inappropriate words, she finally drops a popcorn-kernel sized turd.

On the way downstairs the cat shoots me a look. Her bowl is empty. I feed her.

"You up?" my husband asks as he pees for the second time out of his nightly five or six urinary nocturnal trips. Maybe he should have his prostate checked I think as I vow to look up prostate cancer on the Internet. That WebMD is amazing.

"Yes," I say realizing I never answered him. He is already back in bed. Maybe he isn't emptying his bladder fully, I suggest. He snores in response.

I settle back on the couch. If I watch my show now, I'll be in bed by 1:00 a.m. I promised I would go to bed by 11:00. But the promise was to myself not to my husband, my children or God. Those promises I keep--most of the time. And if a promise is never said aloud, is it really a promise? Or rather a random brain dropping by an overtired mother.

I press play on the remote feeling equal parts rebellious and foolish. What am I trying to prove and to whom? I'm 40 and I have kids. I should just go to bed. Then I see him, Samuel L. Jackson and he's angry. I don't speak, instead I listen. "Why you still up, woman?" He is wearing the black suit from Pulp Fiction. I wonder if John Travolta will be joining him as the oddly likable Vincent, a character that single-handedly revived his dead acting career. I go to open my mouth. He places his hands over my lips. "Bitch, go the f*ck to bed."

I wake up. Samuel is gone. But, the dog has placed her body on top of mine as if she thinks I am somehow part of the couch. I feel asleep during the zombie show and didn't touch my wine. I contemplate going upstairs but instead push the dog over and pull up the Elmo blanket. I think I'll just sleep right here. I'll go to sleep early tomorrow night. I promise...

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