It’s seven-fifteen and pitch black outside. We’ve had a long, busy day and we’re ready for the kids to go to bed.

“Time for bed,” my husband says. “It’s late.”

It’s actually still an hour before their usual bedtime, but our kids can’t tell time yet – at least not on our dining room clock with the Roman numerals, and they don’t think to look at the other clocks – so they don’t catch us in the lie.

In fact, they agree. My son says, “Yeah, it’s dark – it must be like midnight or something.”

My daughter says, “Whoa…”

My husband and I slowly nod our heads in unison and within fifteen minutes the kids’ teeth are brushed, their jammies are on, and they’re tucked in their beds.

So, I wonder, how long can we get away with crap like this? Will it come back to haunt us, like bad karma? Or, are we simply employing the Darwinian tools of parental survival?

What was I told as a child that I later figured out to be bogus? Did my aunt really see Santa flying over my rooftop when she arrived late one Christmas Eve? Didn’t that gorgeous wool coat my mother made for my cousin, Karen, the one she needed me to try on for the finishing touches, actually turn out to be my gift?

And wouldn’t a childhood habit of drinking coffee surely have stunted my growth? (Okay, the verdict’s still out on that one, but at least my pre-pubescent self was spared the jitters, the teeth stains and the stale breath of a forty-year-old.)

Yes, knowledge is power. And in this case, I’m lucky enough to be the one to possess it. Besides, some day, soon enough, my children will have it, too.

But for now, it’s eight o’clock, and through the door I hear the even breaths of my daughter and the snores of my son – sounds that provide me with the smug knowledge that once in a while it’s not so bad that they’re in the dark.

By Anjie Reynolds

Labels: Anjie Reynolds, dark, Nightmares, young children

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