January 2010 Archives

Sort of sleeping at 7 AM. From the kitchen, I heard:

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"

Lunacy can erupt in our house at any moment.

Elijah came into the bedroom, stuck his steaming face in mine, and yelled,

"WHY DID YOU EAT MY SPECIAL APPLE?"

"Your what?"

"MY SPECIAL APPLE THAT I PICKED OUT AT THE STORE AND MOMMY BOUGHT FOR ME! AND YOU ATE IT! WHY? WHY? WHY?"

"I didn't know it was a special apple. I just ate an apple."

"YOU DID TOO KNOW!"

"No, Elijah, I was out of town. Mommy didn't tell me you had a special apple."

He stormed out of the room. I got out of bed, moaning. Elijah stood at the kitchen table, continuing to scream about his apple.

"Of all the apples you could eat," Regina said.

"How the hell was I supposed to know?"

"HOW THE HELL WERE YOU SUPPOSED TO EAT MY SPECIAL APPLE?" Elijah said.

"Don't say hell," I replied.

"THAT'S IT! I'M NOT EATING BREAKFAST, LUNCH, OR DINNER TODAY!"

"That's your problem."

"NO! IT'S YOUR PROBLEM, MISTER!"

"You know, Elijah, that apple was kind of mushy."

Elijah snuffled.

"It was?"

"Yeah. It had a big brown spot."

"Oh," he said. "Then can I have a different apple?"

"As soon as you apologize."

"I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"Don't let it happen again."

"OK."

And he didn't yell at me again until 2:30, when I picked him up at school.

"Daddy," he said. "When I get home, can I go online to www.killthebackyardigans.com?"

"I don't think there is such a site."

"WHY NOT? HOW DO YOU KNOW? YOU'RE LYING!"

I've got to teach this kid how to meditate.

4 AM and the world was snoring, or at least our two Boston Terriers were. A voice pierced the calm of night.

"MAMA! I HAD A BAD DREAM!"

Though she normally gets out of bed at the speed of sludge, Regina was up and running before the boy finished his sentence, as though she'd been launched by tightly-coiled springs. My own response in these situations tends to be slower and fuzzier. I gradually gained some waking consciousness, and staggered toward Elijah's room.

Regina was busy talking him down.

"What happened?" I said.

"I dreamed that Shaq ate us!" Elijah said.

He wasn't referring to the itinerant sheriff-pimp NBA All-Timer. Our dog Shaq is old, blind, deaf, hobbled, and flatulent. We have to add hot water to his food so he can gum it down. Eating us isn't on his agenda.

"Hardly likely," I said.

"And then he ate himself!"

"Even less likely."

"I'm scared!"

"It'll be OK."

"Can I sleep with you?"

"You know the answer to that."

Many people let their children into bed with them after a bad dream. We aren't those people. Once you open the sheets to visitors, the odds of having a 12-year-old co-sleeper are reasonably high. Horror stories of the family bed abound, and we want our damn privacy at bedtime. We help our kid through the rough dreams, but then he stays in his own room. The night belongs to us.

Regina plugged in a string of accent lights that hang around the boy's dresser, and we went back to bed, unaware that the night's terrors had just begun.