Here’s the thing:
I am the bedtime dictator. In the Castro sense. We adhere to Charlotte’s 7 pm bedtime. Always. Period. OR ELSE.
Until this weekend.
It started on Friday night. The night of my holiday party. My mom had Charlotte that night, and she decided that they were going to see a Christmas light display that didn’t start until 6 and was at least an hour away in traffic. Charlotte didn’t get to bed until 9 that night.
(Also—the party was wonderful, and the Four Seasons was amazing, and everyone made it through the night just fine. Charlotte watched some Sesame Street from 1-2am, and I tossed and turned all night, but I’m calling it a complete success because ROOM SERVICE BREAKFAST. Thank you for all your encouragement.)
Photo collage evidence of hotel and party: (Only one year until I can soak in that tub again.)
On Saturday night, we had a family party to attend. It didn’t start until 5:30, and we didn’t leave until 8. Another missed bedtime.
Bonus–we put up the tree on Sunday while Charlotte napped and when she woke up from her nap, she was absolutely in awe. Totally one of my favorite moments.
On Sunday, we stuck to the routine because Monday was…
AKA, No Nap-Ville.
AKA, try to navigate your grouchy, overtired, teething child through dense crowds of people without completely losing your shit-town.
Here I am nursing my child as we embark upon our Small World voyage because she completely lost it as we climbed into the boat.
And here she is moments later sound asleep in my arms on the ride. Talk about white noise.
Naturally, she wouldn’t sleep in the stroller. Only in my arms. AND GUESS WHO FORGOT THE EFFING TULA? This girl. Wooooo!
Anyway, the point of all of this is to say that we survived this bedtime madness, but I am anxiously awaiting the moment tonight when we put Charlotte in her crib, say goodnight, and collapse on the couch at a reasonable hour because mama is TIRED.