There are nights that come along about once a year when I look at the bedside clock and Greg and I laugh and say, “We’re actually going to bed in the eights.” Then we agree to never tell anyone—ever.

 
Going to bed in the 8’s (Oxford English Dictionary: anytime before 9pm, sometime between 8:01pm and 8:59pm) is something I look so very forward to.

 
Maybe it’s because after our annual, weekend volleyball tournament I was only able to walk upright and open the freezer without wincing a full three days later.

 
Maybe it’s because Chloe had a meltdown at the school Toy Fair, I mean, Book Fair, because we wouldn’t buy her a book, I mean a toy. Lots and lots of toys.

 
Maybe it’s because the girls have been playing soccer and swimming and swimming and soccer and soccer-swim and swim-soccer and sometimes we arrive at the pool in shin-pads and goggles or to the pitch in a Speedo and cleats because we are all too tired to function.

 
I needed my annual bedtime ‘in the eights’ to get back on track.

 
Yesterday I put Cheerios on my oatmeal because they were in the same cupboard as the walnuts.

 
I watered the peace lily with orange juice.

 
I ducked behind the door when the guy I called to help us with our trees arrived totally unexpected, wait, did I just say I called him?

 
Bedtime in the eights—you’ll be glad you did.