TITLE: DEATH BY DILLY DALLY By Cora Allen 06/08/06 |
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DEATH BY DILLY-DALLY
by Cora Allen
Every night at seven o’clock my son is told to get ready for bed. I have never told him to begin an extensive Lego project, pour out his rock collection on the floor to find the one with a hole in it, or see if he can untie his belly button. But these are all things he has done instead.
I make a nightly vow to remain calm, but his skills at delaying bedtime are stronger than my self-control. I’m afraid one of these nights, I’m going to explode like a volcano.
I tell him to brush his teeth. A few minutes later I check on his progress only to find him floating a roll of toilet paper in the sink. Already I can feel myself slipping.
I redirect his behavior like all the parenting magazines advise. When I check on him again, he has smeared toothpaste all over the faucet to cut down the glare that has kept him from brushing his teeth.
With a firmer tone I remind him story time will begin as soon as he is done. The phone rings and I go to answer it. When I return, his teeth are brushed but he forgot to use toothpaste. I know this because I can smell milk on his breath from dinner. But I’m tired and want to go to bed myself, so we move on to the next battle.
Instead of putting on his pajamas, he asks for a second chance to clean up his plate so he can have some strawberry shortcake. When I tell him no, he gets a sudden urge to look for the Hot Wheels car he lost in the sandbox last summer. I tell him no again.
Taking off his shirt, he gets distracted because he discovers he can see through it just enough to pretend he’s wearing night vision goggles. He stumbles over to his pajama drawer and pulls out the heavy gray sleeper with feet. I suggest he might like to wear the lightweight baseball pajamas as it was warm today and is seventy-six degrees in the house. He doesn’t. At this point I don’t care what he wears, as long as he gets dressed in something.
“Please don’t dilly-dally,” I beg him.
“Ok, Mom.” He pulls up the zipper on the gray pajamas and runs down the hall to go to the bathroom. I hear the dryer buzz and tell him to meet me in his room in a few minutes.
When I get there he’s a no show. I find him in the bathroom, naked, wiping the floor with a clean bath towel.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Mom, I peed on my pajamas and the floor, so I’m wiping it up.”
I swallow what I was going to say and commend him for cleaning up the mess he made.
“Mom, I guess I’ll put on those baseball pajamas now.”
I nod my approval.
He takes them out of the drawer and lays them on the bed, ironing them with his hand. “Mom, wouldn’t it be funny if an elephant was this flat?”
I can feel my blood pressure shooting up. “It’s bedtime...”
“Mom, I can make a sound like an earthworm. Want to hear me?”
“Just get dressed.”
“Mom, what are we doing tomorrow?”
“No more talking! Put your pajamas on! Nowww!”
“Mom, you go to the kitchen and don’t come back till I say so, ok?”
I summon all the patience I have left for the day. He’s probably going to surprise me by getting dressed, so I comply. I finish loading the dishwasher, and tie up the trash bag. “Are you ready for me to come in there yet?”
“Almost.”
With renewed hope I take the trash to the garage and come back upstairs. “Ready yet?”
“Almost.”
I wait. I grumble to myself. I fume. Moments before I erupt, the call comes. “Ready, Mom.”
I hear giggling as I walk down the hall to his room. I open the door and see he has put his legs through the pajama sleeves, his arms through the legs. I close my eyes and silently count to ten. “If you do not get dressed right now, you will be in time out all day tomorrow. Do you understand?”
“Ok, Mom. I will.” And finally, he does.
During story time he snuggles against me. I love the smell of his hair, as it tickles my chin. He listens intently to the story, and asks impressive questions. Sometimes I can’t believe what a terrific kid he is.
When the story is over, he wraps his arms around my neck, thanks me for reading to him and apologizes for taking so long to get ready for bed. I’m nearly in tears.
I tuck him in and rub his back for a few minutes. Before turning out the light I study the face of my child lying there on his bed, smiling at me. I don’t see rebellion in his eyes. I don’t see a future psychotic criminal, or the anti-social maniac I thought I might see. I see a little boy who has a keen imagination, gets distracted easily and likes to play jokes on his mother.
I think one day he will grow into a fine young man. I just hope I’m around long enough to see that happen.
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