"No." Geoff and I will roll our eyes and address them soberly, like two sensible designated drivers encumbered by our uncooperative and unruly charges. "You don't have to fall asleep, but you can't keep dancing around up here."
It's the kiddie bedtime version of "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." Frankly, they're lucky I don't pull a real dive bar move and spray them with the sink hose to make them scatter from the living room.
Then they'll stumble down the stairs, laughing, crying, and brawling with each other. We'll break up at least two major fights before we even get toothbrushes anywhere near their mouths. "Watch out! You're about to pee on the floor!," I'll shout at Isaac as he turns to punch his sister in the arm, laughing maniacally.
"I LOVE YOU MOMMY MORE THAN ANY MOMMY IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD!!" Paige will wail like a banshee. I'll tell Paige I love her too, but she REALLY needs to go to bed now. "How did the dinosaurs go extinct?" Isaac will ask . . . "Oh wait! We forgot to eat dessert!"
At that prospect, they both spin around 180 degrees. I spin them right back around 180 more, and almost throw them into their beds. Before long, they're completely passed out, totally oblivious to the significant efforts we just made simply to help them perform basic bodily functions and make it 'til morning.
Yup. There's no doubt about it. My kids definitely kinda act like drunk assholes at bedtime.