Dear Little Man,
I remember when your mom used to tell me she was tired. A Sunday afternoon nap was her idea of Heaven.
Now I get it.
That cute little voice that squeals when I tickle you and laughs at my jokes…sounds drastically different at 2am when for some reason your arms fail to work and you are physically unable to reach your comforter draped over the bottom half of your body. The screams we hear from your adorable camouflaged room send the neighborhood dogs into watch alert. The frigid 73 degrees at which your mommy insists we hold the thermostat must send your 36-lb frame into hypothermia paralysis. Bless your little heart.
Trying to establish my new head of household dominance, I swoop from my warm bed to yours in one leap.
Alas, covering you up was a rouse. I’ve tried everything to get you back to sleep, short of putting you on top of the dryer.
You don’t know what you want.
But you know what you don’t want.
Allowing anyone elsein the house on the street to fall back asleep would be contrary to all guidelines set forth in the Secrets of Preschoolers handbook.
And when we say, DO NOT GET OUT OF BED AGAIN, what you hear is Please continue to exhaust every effort in your repertoire including but not limited to laying in front of your door screaming, begging for Nana, and (my personal favorite) sweet silence followed by the pitter patter of little feet crawling into bed with us anyway.
You have discovered that your mama’s heartstrings lie in tragic phrases like, “Please be nice to me!” and “You’re hurting my feelings!”
I am stronger, Little Bug Bug.
And until you discover that my weakness would be a willing ear hearing me tell the classic tale of my 2005 11-day trip on Barnes’ Ranch resulting in Big Daddy hanging above the fireplace, you will not have me in your grasp.
Until then, when it’s “my turn” to tend to your every desire at an ungodly hour of night, I will be there without hesitation. After all – you are now my stepson. I’ll always be there for you. And you’re a great tax deduction.
I remember when your mom used to tell me she was tired. A Sunday afternoon nap was her idea of Heaven.
Now I get it.
That cute little voice that squeals when I tickle you and laughs at my jokes…sounds drastically different at 2am when for some reason your arms fail to work and you are physically unable to reach your comforter draped over the bottom half of your body. The screams we hear from your adorable camouflaged room send the neighborhood dogs into watch alert. The frigid 73 degrees at which your mommy insists we hold the thermostat must send your 36-lb frame into hypothermia paralysis. Bless your little heart.
Trying to establish my new head of household dominance, I swoop from my warm bed to yours in one leap.
Alas, covering you up was a rouse. I’ve tried everything to get you back to sleep, short of putting you on top of the dryer.
You don’t know what you want.
But you know what you don’t want.
Allowing anyone else
And when we say, DO NOT GET OUT OF BED AGAIN, what you hear is Please continue to exhaust every effort in your repertoire including but not limited to laying in front of your door screaming, begging for Nana, and (my personal favorite) sweet silence followed by the pitter patter of little feet crawling into bed with us anyway.
You have discovered that your mama’s heartstrings lie in tragic phrases like, “Please be nice to me!” and “You’re hurting my feelings!”
I am stronger, Little Bug Bug.
And until you discover that my weakness would be a willing ear hearing me tell the classic tale of my 2005 11-day trip on Barnes’ Ranch resulting in Big Daddy hanging above the fireplace, you will not have me in your grasp.
Until then, when it’s “my turn” to tend to your every desire at an ungodly hour of night, I will be there without hesitation. After all – you are now my stepson. I’ll always be there for you. And you’re a great tax deduction.
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