Song: The Power of Two- Indigo Girls
Here's how I first knew he was funny. He woke up in the middle of the night, crying. He was about 18mos. old. No, that's not the punch line. I'm yet to be that sick and twisted, but gaining. So don't lose hope.
I went into his nursery and pulled him into my arms, he continued to cry. Colbert never cried. Never, never, never. Very rarely for milk when an infant but other than that he slept seven to seven. I thought we could be a skit on SNL- The Worlds Most Annoying Parents. "Your kid cries?! In the night?! What's that like?!" (Don't worry we got paid back severely with the other two. Severely. Still.) Back to numero uno. Really he never cried. I actually thought he might have that thing where a person doesn't feel pain. He'd trip sending his body cracking onto the ground hard enough to make every soul in the room wince. He'd hop up, "I'm fine, I'm fine." Knees scraped, palms raw. "I'm fine, I'm fine." Anyway, so it was unusual for him to be crying. I cradled him in my arms and we rocked in the "glider". Remember those?! Ha, oh my gosh. I had mine reupholstered! BAHAHAHA. It all feels so long ago, I guess it was.
I'll never forget the night. It was raining. The sound of the drops hitting the windowpane were as soothing as my voice would be to my sons first midnight cry. Cozy as defined. I believe I must have been relieved he was crying. I know I enjoyed being up with him in the night, the one who got to be there.
I figured he had a nightmare.
"Tell me," I said. I had the gliding foot-rest too. I could not coordinate myself to rock both the chair and footrest in sync. This was probably reflected in my tone, failing our moment. "Tell me why you're crying?"
He continued to cry.
"Tell me," I said, sing song-ish.
More crying, eyes closed. Again, with the glider-chair and the glider-footstool-spastically jerking us around. I ditched feet-up, went with legs dangling. Much better. Damn gliding footstool. Deep breath, gentle tone. "You'll feel better if you tell me. Tell me."
He kept crying.
"Tell me," I said, pleading. I didn't want to use complicated language he was an early talker, but "tell me" seemed the best directive, given the time of night and emotion. He was my first, I was a pro.
More crying.
"Tell me," I said. The undertone saying, I'm your mom, of course you can tell me."Tell me, you can tell meeeeee?"
And then he spoke through the bubbling boogers under his wee nostrils.
"Tell Meeeeeeheeeeheee," he said. And he started laughing as if I were tickling him, mimicking my soothing tone with pitch perfect inflection."Tell meeeeeehheeeee. Tell. Meeeeheeeeheeee."
He was mocking me. My mouth dropped open. I stared down at what looked like Laughing Buddha with open eyed amazement. A wise-ass. Wait a minute. Could a baby be a wise-ass? Well, he mimicked me and felt better. So...you do the math. Chip off the ole block.
Fewer moments have felt as proud.
Do you have a proud moment? Tell meeeheeee;)
XX
Here's how I first knew he was funny. He woke up in the middle of the night, crying. He was about 18mos. old. No, that's not the punch line. I'm yet to be that sick and twisted, but gaining. So don't lose hope.
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| Earliest picture I could find of us on this computer. (July, 2010) |
I'll never forget the night. It was raining. The sound of the drops hitting the windowpane were as soothing as my voice would be to my sons first midnight cry. Cozy as defined. I believe I must have been relieved he was crying. I know I enjoyed being up with him in the night, the one who got to be there.
I figured he had a nightmare.
"Tell me," I said. I had the gliding foot-rest too. I could not coordinate myself to rock both the chair and footrest in sync. This was probably reflected in my tone, failing our moment. "Tell me why you're crying?"
He continued to cry.
"Tell me," I said, sing song-ish.
More crying, eyes closed. Again, with the glider-chair and the glider-footstool-spastically jerking us around. I ditched feet-up, went with legs dangling. Much better. Damn gliding footstool. Deep breath, gentle tone. "You'll feel better if you tell me. Tell me."
He kept crying.
"Tell me," I said, pleading. I didn't want to use complicated language he was an early talker, but "tell me" seemed the best directive, given the time of night and emotion. He was my first, I was a pro.
More crying.
"Tell me," I said. The undertone saying, I'm your mom, of course you can tell me."Tell me, you can tell meeeeee?"
And then he spoke through the bubbling boogers under his wee nostrils.
"Tell Meeeeeeheeeeheee," he said. And he started laughing as if I were tickling him, mimicking my soothing tone with pitch perfect inflection."Tell meeeeeehheeeee. Tell. Meeeeheeeeheeee."
He was mocking me. My mouth dropped open. I stared down at what looked like Laughing Buddha with open eyed amazement. A wise-ass. Wait a minute. Could a baby be a wise-ass? Well, he mimicked me and felt better. So...you do the math. Chip off the ole block.
Fewer moments have felt as proud.
Do you have a proud moment? Tell meeeheeee;)
XX
