Hypnotizing the Tasmanian Devil

I read in some parenting book–or perhaps I am just unconsciously wishing it–that the apogee of toddler frenzy occurs around two years old.

Here she is, two years old on the dot, and she's been whipping around in a tumult of heightened agitation for the last three or four days. This has meant running around the house, hooting and panting right up till it's time for bed.

Bath time resembles a whirlpool.

It is at times such as this, that I am profoundly grateful (smug) that her mother and I instituted a long and complicated bedtime ritual almost a year ago and have been following it ever since.

After the bath and the customary shrieks of outrage that I've dared pull her from her ablutions comes the pounding on of the mirror while I'm attempting to dry her. Then comes the mugging and making of faces as I try to smear petroleum jelly on the backs of her legs (where an ugly rash will pop up to be scratched if I don't) and she tries to distract me. Then comes the diapering.

The diapering.

She's recently taken a shine to big girl panties and has declared diapers to be for babies. Since she so obviously is not a baby, Sophie wants to go diaperless. Unfortunately, she's persisted in her habit of urinating and defecating at will, sometimes lying to our faces when we catch her in the act and try to alert her to the charms of the potty. ("No. Noooo," she'll say when asked if she has to go potty–shaking her little red face and squatting underneath the table). So we, in our turn, have insisted on the diaper. This little war of wills has often threatened to end with Sophie throwing herself headfirst off the changing table in an attempt to escape, so now I let her stand there and pound on the mirror while I arrange her riggings.

Then we wrestle her arms and petroleum-sticky legs into her pajamas. I sigh in relief–the hard part is over. But through this all, Sophie has shown not the least signs of sleepiness: it's been all shrieking and pounding and hooting and splashing.

Now we swing around to the sink for the brushing of the teeth, which is not too bad as Sophie thinks its a jolly game to imitate my own brushing and to sometimes try to stick her toothbrush in my mouth.

Now finally, as we return to the changing table and stare at each other in the mirror, we begin the song that will lead us out of the bathroom and into the bedroom where her mother waits with a recap of the day's events, some milk, books, binky, and another song. This first song is a modified camp song from my youth. The line, "Softly falls the light of day, as our campfire fades away" sees no change in her level of wakefulness. "Silently each Sophie must ask, have I done my daily task," however, elicits the yawn I've been waiting for. "Have I kept my honor bright, have I helped turn out the light?" gets her to turn expectantly. "Oh yes I have, Oh yes I will: turning lights out is what I do," sees her to the door, where, true to her word, she flips out the light.

Then it's downhill to the bedroom, her mother, and the aforementioned story, milk, binky et al.

Her mother makes eye contact, gives a nod; I start the music (Dan Zanes. "Night Owl". Which we used to think was cute and catchy); she turns out the light. Sophie shrieks her accustomed shriek of protest, but once the light goes off, IT NEVER GOES BACK ON. We're in this for keeps now. Then she points to her bedroom; her mother carries her to the door; she rebuffs my attempts at a good night hug while chanting her traditional "No 'ug! No 'ug!", and her mother carries her out and off to her own room.

Silence. A short babbled exclamation. Her mother: "No goose, it's time to sleep". The door closes and Sophie calls out, experimentally, once, twice.

And then once more: silence.