G is in her room, with the night light on and Catherine for company, attempting to go to sleep on her own.
G never goes to sleep on her own. Ever. Bedtime means at least an hour of me sitting on the end of her bed, waiting and waiting and waiting for her to succumb to the Sandman, so this is very weird. Weirder still: it was her idea for me to leave the room. But you won't hear me arguing, especially since I've been able to use the last 45 minutes to clean the kitchen, pack her lunch, scoop the cat box and iron my clothes for tomorrow. Now I just need her to actually go to sleep so I can bake the brownie dough that's calling to me seductively from the refrigerator.