Bedtime: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter
Because tucking them in is just the beginning of the war
There’s a time each night when the world quiets down, the sky dims, and parents everywhere prepare for that sacred ritual known as bedtime. A moment of peace. Of winding down. Of reconnecting through calm conversation, prayer, and a goodnight hug. Slowly closing the door and hearing your little ones quietly drift off to dreamland.
Lies. All of it.
Bedtime is not peaceful. Bedtime is a hostage negotiation with miniature Jokers that just want to watch the world burn. No amount of pizzas or helicopters will help.
In our house, bedtime in theory is 9:00 p.m.
That’s cute, right?
Each of our kids has their own...let’s call them “environmental preferences,” like they’re tiny Airbnbs with very specific guest demands.
Our oldest? He sleeps in total darkness. Blackout curtains. Zero glow. If there’s even a flicker from a power strip, he’ll find it and exile it. His room is so dark you could host a haunted house in there. He loves it. He also doesn’t think he needs that much sleep, but that is a hill I ain’t dying on. He’s in his room trying to go to sleep at a reasonable time. I consider that a win.
Then there’s the youngest. He sleeps in what I’ll call “next-to-dark.” No lights in the room, but the hallway bathroom light stays on. I dare you to turn it off.
Why is the bathroom light on, you ask? Excellent question. It’s because the girls used to need it on.
That’s right. They sleep with their doors closed now. They don’t even see the bathroom light. But somehow, the absence of that light would disrupt the gravitational alignment of the entire second floor. So it stays on, shining for an audience that’s not even present.
Now, the girls. They sleep under LED strip lights mounted to their headboards—like tiny concert stages for dolls and bedtime stories. They’ve also got the closet light on. Because apparently, the room itself is “too dark.”
If you walk into their room at 2 a.m., it’s like walking into a greenhouse at high noon. Plants could photosynthesize in there. I don’t know how they sleep. I don’t know why they sleep like that. But they do. And they like it. Once again, not my hill.
And that’s the thing. We call this a bedtime routine, but I laugh at that word “routine.” Routines imply predictability. Consistency. The same thing happening at the same time, in the same way…every night. In our house? Nah.
What we have is a nightly choose-your-own-adventure where every chapter involves someone who just remembered something urgent.
Thirst-
Oh, they’re so thirsty.
They’ve had nothing to drink all day, apparently.
Their bodies are desert temples and only one sippy cup (the blue one, not the red one—are you even trying?!) will save them from dehydration. Meanwhile, their bedrooms look like the set of Signs, and we’re just waiting for Merrill to “swing away.” Several glasses of water everywhere, not quite full, but not quite empty.
Let’s have a little talk with Jesus-
A sudden need for spiritual nourishment. “Will you pray with us?” “I was just reading my Bible, Daddy” (They won’t bow their heads for dinner, but at bedtime? How dare I forget prayer.) Trust me, kids, Daddy’s praying and he’s definitely reading his Bible. I pray with them, but sometimes they ask for additional prayers, which I gladly covet for myself.
HGTV Kid Bedroom Edition-
A brand-new interior design vision. ("I just thought I’d rearrange my dresser tonight.” Or “This would look so much better over here.” Or “My closet would be more in sync with my vibe if the colors were sorted.”)
The Pet Elephant-
And let’s not forget the family’s pet elephant, which apparently lives in their room. It’s nocturnal. Makes loud stomping noises. But disappears exactly when I get upstairs. I’ve never seen it. But I’ve heard it. So help me, I’ve heard it. No idea where they’re hiding it.
And the girls? When I open the door after a suspicious series of thuds and thumps?
They’re smiling. Big. Innocent. Suspicious.
"Everything okay, Dad?"
No. No, it’s not.
At this point, my only real bedtime goal is to get them horizontal. If they’re in their beds and not actively organizing a flash mob or building a blanket zip-line, I call it a win.
They eventually fall asleep. Not because they’re tired, but because their tiny bodies just lose the fight. And when they do? They’re beautiful. Peaceful. Like tiny glowing angels under 3,000 lumen of ambient headboard light.
Such is life, and I love every minute of it. I am blessed to have four kids to tell “good night” to. Even if it does take hours.
When I finally walk back downstairs, I think about how each of those lights—dark rooms, glowing headboards, hallway bulbs—kind of mirror us. We all rest better when we feel safe.
And when I finally collapse into bed, I can almost hear God chuckling at my exhaustion — because He knows I’m getting a front-row seat to how He must feel with us.
We fight rest. We need one more thing. We shine every light imaginable trying to chase away the dark.
Psalm 4:8 says, “I will both lie down and sleep in peace, for You alone, Lord, make me live in safety.”
No matter what kind of light we need to fall asleep, I’m grateful my children are learning that true peace doesn’t come from a lamp or a night-light. It comes from knowing the One who never sleeps.
Thanks for visiting Grit & Wit. If this hit a little too close to home, it’s probably because you’ve walked barefoot into a bedroom that rivals Times Square. Subscribe, share, or leave a comment about the nocturnal wildlife hiding in your kid’s room.