Sometimes I swear there is a steady stream of sleeping gas being piped into our house each evening. It happens around 6 o'clock. Dinner is in our bellies, the TV is off, the house has a slight chill to it (in an effort to keep the gas bill down). Next thing I know, I'm sleeping—fully clothed—on whatever surface allows me to stretch out (the bed, the couch, the floor).
All it really takes is climbing into bed for story time with the boys and a handful of books. By the time JQ gets to that last line in Goodnight Moon, I'm out. It's just so comforting. A tiny body pressed up against me, a little heart rhythmically beating out a slumber cadence. It's my own personal brand of lethargy kryptonite.
And you know what? I don't really mind. If it wasn't for the fact that JQ would harass me to no end, I might just go bed at 8 o'clock every once in a while. Know what I mean?