Like A Sad, Sad Country Song

Parenting is like a Kenny Roger's song:

You've gotta know when to hold 'em,

Know when to scold 'em,

Know when to walk away,

And know when to put them to bed!

Tonight, I had one TIRED little boy.

An afternoon spent at the pool on a sweltering summer day can zap the best of us, especially a young man who walked the three flights of stairs to the long, windy water slide for almost three hours. Up and down he went, laughing with his buddies, taking turns plunging forward on his tummy or back, always seeking the biggest splash.

Following the aquatics adventure, we returned home with those same pals who played an intense tournament of backyard whiffle ball until dark. After concluding both supper and the returning of friends to their appropriate residence, I felt confident the day was a success. Childhood moments to last a lifetime. Or so I thought.

Shame on me for not recognizing the warning signs of purple-rimmed eyes and the growing frequency of yawns as we drove his friends home. Mistake number one. I then skipped the beloved tradition of a nightly snack. Mistake number two.

Unknowingly, I had become cocky with my parental duties, having had years of maternal experience. Why I was expecting an obedient and cooperative child, I’ll never know. Ah, the bliss of ignorance.

Yes, I uttered that one word that no kid wants to hear. While comforting to those of the geriatric age of 25 or older, this simple unit of language creates shivers of horror, frustration, and distress.

Bedtime.

Big sloppy globs of wetness streak his face instantaneously. The waterworks began around 8 p.m. and lasted for about six months, give-or-take about…well, six months. (A mysterious timeframe and eternity of seconds that is well known by parents all over the world.) I quickly glance at the windows, checking to see if open and thus allowing our neighbors to hear the wailing and make false assumptions of the safety of my child.

A war was raging in my living room, and I vowed silently to win this battle. The first (and to be honest, the only) strategy was to conquer the slumber time uniform.

One arm thrust into a pajama top caused growls of running away. Another arm entering a sleeve brought about threats of tearing up my grocery list. (Yes, for real). With every body part finding its way into the clothing, a new warning was launched my way. The foreboding oration went on with every step of our bedtime preparation. At one point in his sobbing rant, I hear him yell out from his bedroom "And I'm not going to brush my teeth! And those are real threats!"

Navigating the angry writhing body into his bed, I slid beside him, the darkness settling around us. Between the snuggling and continuous brushing of my nails along his arm, I believed that storm raging within him was beginning to calm. (Silly mommy.)

Silence separates sniffles and a list of sleepy demands and complaints continues. The list included a lot of accusations and absolutes before the squall makes one more final outburst.

I believe he was dictating how HE WAS going with me on my upcoming work trip, when his little body explodes with a resounding "AND I'm dumb!"

Catching me off guard, my response of "Really? I thought you were stupid?" must not have tickled his funny bone because his next statement was "And I'm skipping school tomorrow!"

How else could I respond to this?

"But you have to go to school. Remember? Your dumb."

Smiling in the inky room, I draw him in closer. I kiss the top of his head and continue strumming my fingers across his small frame. He sighs and relaxes ever so slightly.

Yes, tonight was definitely a hold 'em night.