It ends tonight.....

In war, as in life, there are instances when it is best to retreat, re-load, and re-think your strategy. My bedroom has become nothing short of a war zone. Ruanita and I spent the better part of the holidays retreating, re-loading, and re-thinking. The children have been victorious in our last few battles. We have licked many a wound, but I remain confident that Ruanita and I are going to win the war. We have a new plan of action. A new blueprint for success, if you will. We appealed to the Big Man, himself. That's right. We invoked the assistance of Santa Claus to hit the children right where it hurts the most. We hit them with their own Christmas gifts. A sort of Trojan Horse ruse for the new millenium.

Early this morning, at precisely three o-clock, I was essentially booted from my bed and forced to seek solace on the living room couch. It began with Sophie in the chair in our bedroom, and ended with two little boys trying to squeeze between Ruanita and I. In my sleep-induced lethargy, I reluctantly moved to the couch...yet again. But today I say "NO MORE!" The madness stops tonight. The final battle will be waged and the parents will emerge victorious.

So how does Santa Claus play into our ingenious plan? Santa brought all three children gifts that they did not expect this year. Gifts that they did not ask for, but were happy to receive. On that most holy of nights, Santa Claus, unbeknownst to the children, sealed their fate when he delivered each child their own sleeping bag. That's right. Each one of my beloved children is now in possession of a sleeping bag. I am sure they have visions of movie nights cuddled in their sleeping bags in the living room, noshing on popcorn, and filling their grubby little mouths with juice. Their parents, however, have a more sinister plot in mind. What is the purpose of a sleeping bag? What function does it serve? It's sole purpose is to keep one warm and cozy when one sleeps on the ground. On. The. Ground.

When my children emerge from their rooms tonight and try to assimilate themselves into my cozy bed, they will be met with swift and lethal retribution. As I type this, Ruanita is at home moving all of the sleeping bags upstairs. When Sophie comes to my room in the middle of the night with the intention of subjecting me to her banshee-like head-butting, elbowing, and kicking, she will immediately be directed to her new Tinkerbell emblazoned perch on the floor. On. The. Floor. When Nicholas stumbles upstairs carrying his beloved blankie and coos his sweet little sing-songy desire to snuggle with his mommas, he will quickly be directed to his Lightning McQueen sleeping bag on the floor. On. The Floor. And when Lucas leaves the warmth of his own bed with the intention of committing a vicious assault with his giant head, bony knees, and razor-sharp toenails, he will be mercilessly pointed in the direction of his new space-themed sleeping bag on the floor. On. The. Floor.

Aren't sleeping bags a simply grand gift? That Santa Claus sure is one smart fat dude.