There’s really no arguing with Little Man S. Like, the other day, I rounded the corner into the bathroom the other day, and found him sitting there, unspooling an entire cartridge of floss. Our eyes locked. Before I could take another step towards his precious bounty, he redoubled his efforts, racing to get to the end of that infernal puzzle before I could get it away from him. The bathroom still smells of wintergreen.
So, as he began tearing through his Easter chocolate mid-egg hunt, shredding the foil to find even one little scrap of chocolate left, I made the choice. I decided to continue to enjoy our lovely, sunny Sunday, visiting with cousins and taking dazzling pictures of our kiddos all dressed up, rather than battle the mountain of will that is Little Man S. I thought, naively, “Well, what’s the worst that can happen? So, we have one cranky day…”
Cut to bedtime. And then another half hour later. And then, to save time, go ahead and fast forward another hour. Little Man S, addled on sugar and chocolate, shows no signs of being able to sleep. “Mon mommy, mon, get up!” He pulls me out of his bed, again, and towards the stairs. “TV!” he shouts as he tugs on my arm. He wants me to go downstairs, to cuddle him on the couch while we watch reruns of Saturday Night Live and both pass out. But it’s not Saturday, and I have work in the morning, and I’m zonked.
We climb into bed, snuggling him between daddy and me. And, in a fine act of parenting, I pull out the iPad, set it up in front of him, and turn out the lights. I know better than to ply him with “Yo Gabba Gabba,” the only show he watches, so I click on the big ad for “Mr. Selfridge” on my Amazon Instant homepage. I’ve never watched it, but it’s BBC, and what’s better for lulling you to sleep than curling up in bed with BBC, right? At least, he’ll be the most cultured kid in Toddler Junior tomorrow.
There’s really no arguing with Little Man S.