Friday, July 22, 2005
Mr. No
For much of the last two weeks, Boo has been missing. In place of my sunny, easy-to-please baby, someone has transplanted an irritable toddler. For hours on end, he'll answer my every question with a whiny "no." And if I commit the sin of filling the wrong cup, expect for him to hurl himself to the floor for a no-holds-barred tantrum. When he behaves this way in public, as he has become fond of doing, I feel the need to explain to people in close earshot, as if to ward off their unspoken criticism that something is wrong with Boo that I'm simply ignoring: "He's almost two." Older women, in particular, invariably meet that explanation with knowing, sympathetic smiles.
During our bedtime routine, I've begun to reach into my bag of tricks from a couple of years back and offer him a choice. After he finishes with milk, he can continue to rock for awhile, or he can choose bedtime. Interestingly, he sometimes opts for bed. This evening, though, he requested, "Rock." Usually at this juncture, he drapes his body across mine like a cheetah in a tree and goes limp. But tonight, he had another request: "Sunshine." I had not yet crooned "You Are My Sunshine," and Boo was keeping track. Still hoarse from last week's illness, I croaked through the chorus. Again, Boo asked, "More sunshine?" and we continued on together. Eventually, I told Boo it was bedtime. He replied, "More milk." I told him that there was no more milk, but that if he was still thirsty, he could have either water or apple juice. He grinned at me: "Orange juice." He was jerking my chain, but I can bear that brand of good-natured defiance any day. Boo settled for water, then settled in for sleep.
During our bedtime routine, I've begun to reach into my bag of tricks from a couple of years back and offer him a choice. After he finishes with milk, he can continue to rock for awhile, or he can choose bedtime. Interestingly, he sometimes opts for bed. This evening, though, he requested, "Rock." Usually at this juncture, he drapes his body across mine like a cheetah in a tree and goes limp. But tonight, he had another request: "Sunshine." I had not yet crooned "You Are My Sunshine," and Boo was keeping track. Still hoarse from last week's illness, I croaked through the chorus. Again, Boo asked, "More sunshine?" and we continued on together. Eventually, I told Boo it was bedtime. He replied, "More milk." I told him that there was no more milk, but that if he was still thirsty, he could have either water or apple juice. He grinned at me: "Orange juice." He was jerking my chain, but I can bear that brand of good-natured defiance any day. Boo settled for water, then settled in for sleep.
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