When Duncan is sick or over tired, putting him to sleep is a lot like wrestling a pig that thinks truffles are hidden somewhere inside my torso. Or maybe my thigh. Or my shoulder. Or my skull. They're in there somewhere! And if he roots around long enough and hard enough, he's sure to find them. It usually takes about an hour and a half.
When he finally falls asleep, I'm sore, tired, and trapped under a tangle of limbs. Duncan, of course, has been transformed from rooting pig to a picture of angelic sweetness. Suddenly, I want to hold him a little longer, my sick tired little darling. But my poor battered bladder thinks otherwise. So, I disentangle myself and creep away, feeling like a jerk for having fantasized -- briefly! -- about trussing the kid up like a pig and plunking him on his bed with an apple in his mouth. Poor baby.
No comments:
Post a Comment