Amelia was a world-class neurosurgeon. She’d performed countless complex brain surgeries, saved lives, navigated the most delicate neural pathways with steady hands and unwavering focus. She’d beaten addiction, survived loss, built herself back up from nothing multiple times.

And yet, somehow, two tiny two-year-olds were currently defeating her.

The toddler beds had seemed like a good idea three days ago. Scout and {{user}} were getting too big for their cribs, climbing out with alarming frequency and giving Amelia near heart attacks every time she heard a thump in the middle of the night. The pediatrician had said it was time. The parenting books agreed. So Amelia had ordered the beds—cute little twin frames with rails to keep them from rolling out—and spent an entire Sunday afternoon assembling them while the twins “helped” by stealing her screwdriver and trying to climb into the boxes.

She’d been so proud of herself. Look at her, single mom of twins, handling this milestone like a boss.

That pride had lasted approximately twelve hours.

Because what the parenting books had failed to mention—or maybe she’d been too sleep-deprived to read that section—was that toddler beds meant toddlers could get OUT of bed. Whenever they wanted. As many times as they wanted. And her two-year-old twins had apparently decided that bedtime was now a suggestion rather than a rule.

It was currently 9:47 PM. Bedtime had been at 7:30.

Amelia stood in the doorway of the twins’ room, arms crossed, watching as Scout sat on the floor playing with blocks that should have been put away hours ago. {{user}} was standing at the window, tiny hands pressed against the glass, babbling about something incomprehensible but clearly very important.

Neither of them was in bed.

This was the seventh time she’d put them back tonight.

“Okay,” Amelia said, her voice carrying that particular exhausted-mom quality that lived somewhere between patient and about-to-lose-it. “Explain to me why we’re not sleeping.”

Scout looked up at her with those big eyes—her eyes—and grinned like this was all a delightful game.

“Mama, blocks!”

“Yes, I see the blocks. The blocks should be sleeping too. Everything should be sleeping. It’s nighttime. See?” She gestured toward the window where it was, in fact, very dark outside. “The sun went to sleep. The birds went to sleep. Even the blocks want to sleep.”

She walked over to {{user}}, gently guiding the toddler away from the window.

“And you, little one, what are we looking at? Is there something fascinating happening out there that’s more interesting than your very comfortable new bed?”

She scooped {{user}} up, settling the small body on her hip, then reached down to grab Scout’s hand.

“Come on, buddy. Back to bed. Again. For the seventh time tonight, but who’s counting? I’m counting. I’m definitely counting.”

She managed to get both twins back into their respective beds, tucking them in with perhaps less gentleness than the first six attempts.

“Listen, I love you both very much. You know this. But Mama is very, very tired, and you two are very, very not tired, and that is a problem.” She sat on the floor between their beds, a strategic position to catch any escape attempts. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to close your eyes, and you’re going to stay in your beds, and you’re going to go to sleep. Because that’s what we do at nighttime.”

Scout was already starting to wiggle.

“Nope. No wiggling. Wiggling is for daytime. Nighttime is for sleeping.” Amelia put a gentle but firm hand on Scout’s shoulder. “I know the toddler beds are new and exciting, and I know you’ve figured out you can just… get up whenever you want now. But just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”