Bedtime. And Dragons.


I have to admit, I haven’t actually watched much of Game of Thrones. I am mostly familiar with it due to all the awesome memes that are floating around out there on the great interwebs.

By the way, did you know that there is basically a meme for ANYTHING? It’s true. Thank you, internet, for being so awesome and such a profoundly huge waste of time, simultaneously. But Game of Thrones has all this… well people die in it in very unfortunate ways. And also, there’s quite a bit of sex. I get embarrassed when people kiss for longer than ten seconds on the Hallmark channel, ya’ll. It’s just the way I am.

Anyhow. Last night I was a skosh tired as I put the boys to bed. This is sort of like saying the captain of the Titanic was feeling a bit annoyed by the whole iceberg thing.

We hit the iceberg called Mommy is Tired of this Crap and It’s Time for SLEEP.

The babies would have none of it. You see, they had hit the iceberg called We are So Spazzed We Are Practically Hovering in Mid Air So Good Luck With That Mommy.

Some mommies, I know, out there, still manage to speak gently after 8 pm. They use soothing tones and give choices (“Would you like to brush your teeth now? Or would you like me to yell at you about brushing your teeth now?”) and are supportive and nurturing, even though their overtired darlings are squealing and swooping like that demonic piggie in The Amityville Horror.

Ok. Step back, Momsie. No, my children were not actually demon possessed. Comparing them to a scary movie piggie that has red eyes and is rather horrible is not nice.


This is how it all went down:

Naked children sliding from bath to bedroom. Little scrawny legs blurred by speed and nuttiness. Momsie snarling in British accent:
“Fear cuts deeper than swords, children. Beware!” (All Game of Thronesey here. Get it?)

Children, still naked, giggling as if their lives depended on it.

“When you play the game of thrones, you win, or you die, children. NOW GET IN YOUR THOMAS THE TRAIN JAMMIES. OR I SHALL SMITE THEE!”

Both children have found a pair of their father’s underwear and are taking turns trying it on their head. One of them drapes it around him like Mother Teresa. More nutball giggling. They are underwear-helmeted giggling lunatics. They can’t stop. Even with smiting.

“The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that.” (OOOO. That’s a good one. George R.R. Martin writes good stuff, I tell you.)

Giggling has now increased in velocity and pitch as if the little soft tops of their heads are just gonna blow off with nutball glee.


Screenshot 2015-03-04 11.59.53
This girl. She’s intense. I want her on my team, and all, but I’m not sure I’d be inviting her out for coffee anytime soon, know what I’m saying?


That final bit worked to a degree. They dove under their covers and at least the giggling was muffled. I left them, little cocoons of shaking Superman sheets and blankies. No dragons were unleashed. I sighed heavily, hung up my sword, and went in search of some mulled glog or whatever it is they’re always drinking out of those clunky goblets.

But, forsooth! There’s more.

Wee child (Red) came and found me, as I settled with my tea and a leg of mutton. He stood outside the door; his Thomas the Train jammies were on backwards and inside out, and he wanted me to rock with him in the Big Chair.

He was so pathetically dressed I took pity on him.

And then, he leaned his head on my chest and reached, with his soft fingers, for my hand. “Make a fist,” he demanded. His eyelashes, as I looked down at him, seemed to go for miles.

I obeyed. I was under the spell of the eyelashes and impossibly small nose.

He gripped my fist in both his hands and looked up at me. His eyes were so deep and brown that all I could see were his children, and children’s children, with those eyes.

“Your fist. It’s the size of you heart. You have a big heart.”

He put his fist inside of my clasped hand. “My heart is smaller. It fits inside yours.”

Yes. Yes it does my small one.

You are the king of my heart.

King Red. Redeemed.


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