Two nights ago Mrs. Blackwell and I were awakened from our slumber by an increasingly familiar sound.
The boy popped up at about 1:30 and he was howling mad.
|I suppose there are worse silhouettes |
that could greet you late at night.
Completely ignoring my wait-and-see-if-he-stops-crying strategy, Mrs. Blackwell went after the boy. As she left the room I wondered if she’d have any luck quelling his fury.
But as the minutes wore on and the audible anger continued, I lost hope. I then wondered what her next plan was. I didn’t have to wait long for my answer.
The crying drew closer, closer and still closer before the door to our bedroom opened.
Drifting through the doorway was the silhouette of my wife, backlit by an impossibly bright hallway. In her arms she was holding an angry, gyrating, little old man with hair so wild, so big and disheveled, I questioned if it was the boy or something else.
I’ve seen a version of this before but, I just couldn’t remember the boy looking so big in her arms. Aside from that increasingly full head of hair, when we hold him his long legs now dangle somewhere around our thighs and his arms reach far around us.
|He's a little weak on the earlier albums but, from the|
White Album on, he knows his stuff.
It’s equally apparent when he’s sprawled out in our bed, which is exactly where Mrs. Blackwell brought the boy. Yes, we’re well aware that this is not the recommended course of action.
We know placating a child by bringing them to bed could mean a green light for them to use this strategy for eternity. But when you’re tired and you’ve got work in just a few hours, one can peer through their sleepless fog to envision a fate far worse than the possibility of rewarding a manipulative child.
Sometimes you’ve got to break a parenting rule — for Mrs. Blackwell and myself that time is 2:13 a.m.
Naturally, the boy immediately perked up once nestled between Mrs. Blackwell and I. He then commenced to dig into his catalogue of baby babble, which has grown to include about a third of the song titles in The Beatles catalogue punctuated with unrelated phrases strung together.
It’s fun, it’s cute but it was also very, very late.