The Little Sh*t

The Bean and I had an amazing afternoon playing on moonbounces. Jumping around on rubber tubes filled with compressed air is as tiring as running underwater wearing boots (or for my out of shape ass, walking up two flights of steps) and after an hour, we were both exhausted. I was sure that the Bean would pass out as soon as his curly ‘fro hit the pillow.

Within the first hour after putting him to bed, Jules checked on him once but soon after he began complaining again. I went in to fix his blanket and re-set him, telling him that I wasn’t coming back in again and that he should close his eyes and go to sleep. This usually does the trick.

But fifteen minutes later a sad, tiny voice called out, “Medicine! Mommy!”

We are big believers in children’s Motrin and don’t freak out at the thought of giving the kid a shot when needed. Dare I say that dosing our child has been good for all of us. It makes him feel better and after administering the meds, we all get some sleep. Now that he’s old enough, the Bean understands why he takes medicine and asks for it when he’s not feeling well.

“Medicine! Medicine! Mooooooommmy!”

Jules had excused herself from parenting duties since she was having some contractions and went to take a bath (I now understand that it helps). So I pour a shot of children’s Motrin and head into the Bean’s room. As soon as I’m through the door, he stands up in his crib and in a sweet and happy voice says, “Hi.” I hide the medicine cup in my hand, for this does not sound like the tone of a sick child. I suspiciously begin the interrogation…

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why do you need medicine?”

“Um,” he says. You can almost hear the wheels in his mind turning.

I don’t want to inadvertently lead him, but I had to ask, “Does anything hurt?”

“Yes,” he says. “My toe on my foot.”

It’s official. I’ve been had.

“I don’t think you need any medicine,” I tell him. “I think you’re faking. Now lay your head on the pillow and go to sleep.”

"I will sleep because it's dark outside," he tells me.

What I'm thinking is, "It's an hour and a half past your bedtime. Daddy's in the middle of "Battlestar Galactica' and it's a really good episode. GO TO BED!!!"

But what I say is, "Yes, it's dark. You need to sleep. Goodnight."

As I close the door to the bedroom, I contemplate taking the shot of Motrin myself. I tell Jules the story. Her response?

“That little shit.”

Yes, our boy is now old enough and smart enough to lie. The parenting game just got ratcheted up to a whole new level. Little shit indeed.