Since returning from our trip we have been working dilligently at getting Stella back on somewhat of a normal sleep pattern (I say somewhat because when it is daylight until 9:30pm it can be difficult to convice someone that it is actually nighttime). We have had a couple of hiccups in this process, like for instance, last weekend when we had her to bed no earlier than 10:30 on both Friday and Saturday nights. Sunday went a little tiny bit better, but on Monday we regressed considerably. We got her to bed at a respectable 8:30 and were feeling rather confident at the ease within she went down. Then we heard it. The gutteral yell of a child being tortured by pokey things. Yowling at the top of her lungs, “Mamaaaaa, Dadeeeee.” Although one can tolerate this for a certain amount of time, it does reach a critical mass wherein your ears begin to bleed at the desparateness of the call. So, in I go, with my stern voice and solid resolve. “No, Stella it is time for ni-nite, here are boo-white-ba-ba-sugar (the menagerie of items required for sleep time).” She calms enough that I can get her to nod her head in agreement that she is ready for ni-night, and I leave feeling triumphant-ish.

Quiet.

Quiet.

“Mamaaaaa, Dadeeeee.”

This time I go in, ready to lay down the law, and what does she do? She pulls out the cute guns and shoots me smack in the head. “Hi Mama!” Powers fading. Must resist cuteness. Must not cave. I lose it. I smile. She smiles. She reaches out her arms. I pick her up, she says “Git down. Dadeee,” and runs to the kitchen to find him serving up a bowl of ice cream. “BITE! BITE! MMMMM! BITE!”

So, at 9:10pm after two failed attempts and a shared bowl of ice cream, Stella went to bed without incident.