Anyway...bottle, bedtime. It's her thing. Anyone who would like to tell me not to do this can
Their poor, poor wives.
And hell, the bottle thing works. She actually goes down without a fight. This, coming from a kid who fights everything.
(A quick aside: I've changed my share of Huggies in 32 years, and I know one thing....normal children enjoy diaper changes. My kids? It takes both arms, a knee, the opposing foot and a Ouija board to change her butt. I kid you not; I had to call her father in to help me the other day. Who fights a fucking diaper change? My kid, that's who. I keep trying to tape a change to show you how awful she is about it, but I can't quite figure out how to operate a camera with my left ear. I'm working on it.)
So, tonight it was time to put her down and I had NO MILK. Jesus M*%^$#F@#$^$NG Christ. Me? Screwed. We'd had the day from hell and she's two there was no nap and she's two and it was getting really late and she's TWO. What did I do? I gave her potato chips instead. We cuddled on the couch, watched some tv, I brushed her hair and we read a few books. And then I just told her it was bedtime. She said, "Ok", and walked upstairs.
She. Said. Ok.
We said goodnight to the moon and the pretty bowies** and then I put her in her bed and kissed her and gave her a baby and walked out. Really, really quietly. I got almost out the door and she said, "Momma?" to which I answered, "Uuuuuh...huhhhh?" and she repied, "Ok, bye!"
Of course, all of this happened at 12:30 in the morning, 3 1/2 hours after using the last of the milk and trying to get her to bed. Hey, we can't win'm all.
*Yeah, that would be ME.
**Bonus Points to the first correct guess as to what the hell a Pretty Bowie is.