(Pop) Cultural Education of My Son Continues
Last night, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
Today, Adventures in Babysitting.
Are citizens of the nation of Insomnia known as “Insomnians”?
Small child is home. My brain still uses the phrase “small child” but he’s not that small any more. He’s 10, and though I can still lift him, lets hope I don’t have to carry him far, let alone up any stairs.
He fell asleep on the couch his first night back after almost a week at Grandpa’s cabin in Flagstaff. They call it a cabin, but it’s a mobile home. And it’s well outside of Flagstaff proper. I wouldn’t mind, except when he does that, he has a tendency to wake up at inhuman times, then wake me up and ask for help getting back to sleep.
There are a lot of things hat I am realizing he is not too small for any more. Not doing that is one of them. Oh, well. He lets me nap while he watches his stories.
I’m starting to wonder, after the last week without caffeine, if maybe I might start feeling at least somewhat better. Or maybe this past week was just scheduled to be one of my good weeks regardless. If I can just emigrate from the nation of Insomnia.
So this time I woke up at the inhuman hour, and it’s hard to go back to sleep, knowing he might get up any minute and wake me again. It should be the opposite, though: I should be more eager to get to sleep while I can! But it doesn’t work that way.
It sure was nice being able to sleep whenever my body needed it, unfettered by the day-night cycle of other human beings, not matter their relative size.
The one thing I can hardly wait for, in the godforsaken early hours that his very “pre-” preteen physiology likes to awaken, is to give him a big hug, and tell him I’m glad he’s home.
I’m not hungry for cake today.
I read him to sleep, as I have for years. Some nights, he doesn’t even make to me opening the book. We’ll chat awhile, about the day or whatever, and then I’ll notice he’s suddenly not keeping his end of the conversation. I don’t get to read to him those nights.
Then there are nights like tonight, where the only thing out of his mouth is “Read book?” So tired, he won’t make the effort of a complete sentence, but I still see him out of the corner of my eye, shifting to get more comfortable, even as I’m a couple of pages in.
He may fall asleep by the second page, but I’ll still read three or four more. He probably remembers hardly any of it at all. But I don’t care: I know he just wants to fall asleep listening to his daddy’s voice.
So, I listen to my voice, too. I’m enjoying whatever story it is myself, but in my mind, I’m a voice actor recording an audiobook. I listen to my cadence, tone, timbre, inflection. I read each character slightly differently—though I don’t have the greatest range. I enjoy any time I can pull out the gruff marine staff sergeant drill instructor voice, as long as there’s not so much dialog that it gives me a sore throat. I stop at the first new paragraph on a page—not that it matters. LIke I said, he fell asleep pages ago.
It’s one of those things: If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.
I recognize that face! It’s Captain Hammer!
No, I don’t want to choose my doom!