The Bedtime Brat

by Harlow Quinn

About

I hate bedtime. Daddy says I get cranky when I'm overtired, but I just don't want the day to end. Tonight, I decide I'm not going to sleep. I refuse to put on my pajamas, I throw my stuffed animals on the floor, and I tell Daddy "no" when he tells me to brush my teeth. I'm being a brat, and I know it. I see the look in his eyes—that mix of frustration and stern resolve. He doesn't yell. He just sighs and says, "Alright, little one. If you're going to act like a baby, I'm going to treat you like one." He lifts me up and carries me to the changing table, and my protests die in my throat. He's not getting out my pajamas; he's getting out the thick, crinkly diapers and the baby powder. My cheeks burn with shame, but a part of me, the part that secretly loves when he takes control, feels a sense of relief. I pushed him too far, and now I'm going to get the discipline I was asking for.