The Night Alexa Tried to Kill Me

Now that I’m home every night, I have been promoted—without interview or consent—to Director of Bedtime Operations.

It’s a complicated role.

A delicate dance.

A nightly hostage negotiation, except we are the hostages and the kids hold all the power.

Erin and I find ourselves standing in the hallway whispering like exhausted FBI agents:

“Please. PLEASE. Stay in your room. We’ll give you anything. Water? Ice cubes? A NASA-grade humidifier? A unicorn?”

Growing up, I don’t remember anyone monitoring whether I brushed my teeth, washed my face, hydrated like I was preparing for a desert marathon, or had the perfect ambient soundscape to ensure REM sleep. I went to bed whenever my body collapsed under the weight of childhood.

But now?
Now bedtime is an Olympic sport.

And recently, Sadie has introduced a new event.

A tradition.
A ritual.
A prank so diabolical and delightful that I am both its victim and its biggest fan.

It started one night when I tucked her in for the “final goodnight”—which, let’s be honest, is never final—and I heard her giggling under the covers. The suspicious kind of giggle. The I-have-done-something-that-will-make-you-question-your-life-choices giggle.

I walked in, fully unsuspecting.

She had secretly turned Alexa up to Level 10.
Maximum volume.
Earthquake mode.

Then she said sweetly, “Daddy, can you ask Alexa to play Ocean Sounds?”

Like a fool—a gentle, naïve, trusting father—I said:

“Alexa, play Oce—”

And suddenly, in a British accent so loud it shook every cell in my body, Alexa SCREAMED:

“PLAYING OCEAN SOUNDS.”

I jumped three feet in the air.
I screamed loud enough to wake the dead.
I threw my hands up like a man who mistakenly activated a bomb.

Sadie?
She lost it.

She fell off her bed.
Rolled on the floor.
Cried laughing for FIVE MINUTES STRAIGHT.

I have never—NEVER—seen her laugh like that.
A laugh so pure, so wild, so uncontrollable it felt like someone bottled childhood joy and shook it open.

Erin ran in thinking Sadie was choking on a piece of candy I may or may not have snuck her with the phrase “Don’t tell Mom.”

(Which, for the record, she tells Erin immediately.
There is no loyalty in candy crime.)

And that was night one.

Night two, she did it again.
Night three, again.
Night four to night twenty-eight?
Again and again and again.

And every night, I jump.
I scream.
She howls laughing.
And that is how she drifts off to sleep — in hysterics, tears on her cheeks, joy in her chest.

Abbey has now joined the movement.
Her bedtime ritual:
I wrap her like a burrito, place her gently under the covers, and once she’s out cold, I whisper,
“Alexa, play The Beatles,”
because she was named after Abbey Road and deserves that kind of poetry.

And here’s the part that gets me — every night.

There was a time not long ago when I was physically home at night,
but mentally?
Gone.

I was thinking about work
and emails
and how to race the Joneses
and how to be better at everything that didn’t actually matter.

I was there,
but not here.

I heard their voices,
but I wasn’t listening.

I saw their faces,
but I wasn’t seeing.

And now, in the glow of a trickster child and a British-accented Alexa yelling “PLAYING OCEAN SOUNDS,”
I understand what slowing down actually means.

It means this:
You get the privilege of being startled by your daughter’s laughter
instead of missing it entirely.

It means:
You get to notice the softness of the moment you used to rush past.

It means:
You get to be in on the joke.
In on the joy.
In on the life that was happening with or without you.

I know...

One day, sooner than I want,
Sadie will outgrow this.
The prank, the laughter, the Level 10 chaos.
She’ll ask for privacy, not Ocean Sounds.
She’ll drift off to sleep without needing me in the doorway.

And I’ll miss
every single ridiculous second of these nights.

So for now—
I jump.
I scream.
She laughs.
Abbey burritos into dreamland.
Erin smirks.
And we do it all again tomorrow.

Because we finally understand:

Slowing down isn’t about doing less.
It’s about being awake enough to notice
the moments
that will one day be the memories
you ache for.

And tonight?
Alexa can shout in my face as loud as she wants.

Because this—
THIS—
is the good stuff.