I am hardly a social butterfly, but I do entitle myself to an evening out now and again. Whenever I do, even if I carve out extra Harry Potter read-aloud time first, I can be sure that my seven-year-old will be in high dudgeon, mumbling to himself “why does she have to go out EVERY NIGHT?” and holding back the tears.
Last night, though, he was totally copacetic with the idea. I tousled his hair, got a “purple kiss and purple hug” from Maggie, and was free to be out the door as soon as I said goodbye to their five-year-old brother.
Not in the toy room. Not in the bathroom.
I found him in his bedroom. Under the covers. Sobbing.
MOMMY: Shea! What’s the matter?
SEAMUS: I weally don’t want you to weave.
MOMMY: Honey, I’ll be home soon.
SEAMUS: But what if I need you?
MOMMY: Daddy will be here.
SEAMUS: But what if I need YOU?
MOMMY: Why would you need only me?
SEAMUS: What if I make you something?
MOMMY: How can you make me something if you’re in your bed?
SEAMUS: What if I get up, and get out of bed when Daddy’s not wooking, and get paper, and dwaw a valentine for you, and you’re not here when I’m done? WHAT THEN?
What then, indeed. Well played, Seamus. I had no choice but to change tactics and distract via tickle torture before sneaking out.
Home at 9:30 p.m. No valentine emergencies while I was gone, thank goodness.