As told by a little brown bear.
Elias asked to “wock” tonight (that’s rock, for the uninitiated). It’s pretty hard for me to say no to that, even when it’s so blatantly nothing but a delaying tactic. I have rarely refused, and never once been sorry when I agreed.
Tonight, we were wocking in the soft green chair in a mostly darkened room, and I heard this:
Hey Mama. Yes, baby?
Once upon a time, long time ago, there was a spider, and he crawled all over Mama’s face <tiny fingers on my cheeks> and he spinned a big web, and then … and then … and then … his mama and daddy said he had to go home, so he went home. And dat’s da THE END.
<pause>
And long time ago, there was a cricket, and he went on a big mountain, and then … and then he went home to his mama and daddy. And dat’s da THE END.
<pause>
I love you.
<Mama dissolves into a large pile of mushy goo>
I just love that all his stories end with the adventurer going home with mama and daddy. If that’s the happiest ending he can think of, we must not be doing everything wrong.
I know I let him play me at the end of the day, with the wocking. But, really, can you blame me?
I ‘fall’ for it every night.
Even the night he came out and said “I’m not sure if I’m too hot or too cold, but I can’t sleep. I think I need rocked.” And this is coming from my {almost} 8 year old.
All I know is that someday he won’t want to be rocked. And I actually tear up thinking about that day.