Dr. Seuss for $1000, Alex

Little Gary, who is eight, has begun requesting that I read Dr. Seuss's The Sleep Book to him every night. This has been going on for a few weeks now, and he doesn't seem to be getting tired of it. He won't let Husband read it to him, either. It has to be me. Plus, he notices when I change my usual inflection in any part of the book (and comments on it).

This morning, he said to me out of the blue, "What's in Culpepper Springs, Mom?"

I had to stop and think for a minute. Culpepper Springs...Culpepper Springs...I know that town name, but what's in it?

"I don't know," I finally answered.

"The Stilt-Walker's Hall," he replied pleasantly, and I suddenly realized I'd been Alex Trebeked. According to The Sleep Book, Stilt-Walker's Hall is where all the stilt-walkers sleep after a long day of stilt-walking. Then I wondered: he's eight. Has he reached that advanced level of subtle sarcastic pleasantness that most British people strive all their lives to achieve for the sole purpose of putting boorish Americans into their place without them being any the wiser? (If so, I'm so proud.)

You see, last night was the first night I refused to read the book since Little Gary started asking for it. It's a long book, and by the time I noticed how late it was (the girls and I were thoroughly involved in several scintillating episodes of "Boys Over Flowers," which Sophia has recently become obsessed with after Elannah started watching it again. HA HA HA HA HA! I'll comment on this delicious bit of irony later), it was after 10pm on a school night. He was upset, but he was too tired to make much of a fuss. Maybe he just saved up his frustration and poured it all into that question this morning. Or it could be that he fell asleep mulling over the fact that none of the stilt-walkers in Stilt-Walker's Hall seem to need a blanket to cover them while they snooze, and he just wanted to remind me of that fascinating little place.

Speaking of kids, I took both the boys to their swimming lessons yesterday evening. I was armed with a book (Six of Crows, by Leigh Bardugo) and was ready to happily read out the hour of lessons in the hot and humid environment of the city pool, when a woman walked up to the spot next to mine on the bench and started putting her children's hastily discarded outdoor clothing into neat piles. She had a baby on her hip and looked to be around my age. When she made a comment to me about the clothing she was folding and then asked what book I was reading, I recognized the look of a mother of young children desperate for adult conversation.

We chatted for the entire hour, and she asked if I'd be back today. I assured her I would be. I remember well the feeling that, when the children were very small, everything that came out of my mouth all day was things like "We don't put our heads into the toilet bowl!" or "You just asked for a peanut butter sandwich, so why are you crying when I give you a peanut butter sandwich??" People tell you to cherish the time when your children are small, but let's be honest: some things you don't really miss. Dirty diapers. Sleep-deprivation. The agony of shopping with multiple tired, hungry little children.

Reading them the same book over and over and over or watching the same kid's show over and over and over.

But I'm a lucky mom. I have survived the years of very small children, and I don't mind reading The Sleep Book to my eight-year-old--provided it is at a reasonable hour of the evening. He generally keeps his head out of the toilet, too, and sucks it up when I give him the sandwich he asked for moments before. And every once in a while, he says, "Remember when you used to kiss me all over my face?" so that I will kiss him all over his face.

I love that.