Emerson Sleeps

The Boy is down now. When night comes he is "scared" and wants Daddy's bed. This is new and he has learned to leverage fear (no Daddy would have his son be afraid). Tonight he is scared of lions, tigers, bears (oh my), spiders, and eyes (?). Bullshit. He loves lions, tigers, and bears (oh my). I know this and tell him so. "Oh," he says. "Yes. Oh," I reply. As for the spiders and eyes, I find no sign of them during a once-over of his room. So I lay with him a long while. I rub his back and cover him with Ol' Blue. I apologize for being frustrated earlier. He is sorry for being a little shit. We agree that we are good, trade kisses, a hug, and potatoes. Tomorrow we will sign him up for soccer. A three-year-old playing soccer. Hmmph. Seems a bit odd to me but I'm game if he is--and he is. I've explained to him that this is purely for comic relief. I expect him to get nothing out of it. But I, on the other hand, intend to laugh myself sterile watching him amble up to a gaggle of soccer boys, grab the game ball, and haul ass. Then when the Soccer Moms encircle me, marking their territory with protests and exasperation, I'll say, "THEY'RE THREE!!! All the Boy did was pick up the ball. Isn't that your little monster over there taking a growler on the other team's net?" Soccer moms hate that--I presume. But for now, the Boy sleeps. Doing battle with lions, tigers, and bears. Victorious over each one. And after awhile he walks his little boy walk straight ahead to soccer practice. Confident and scared with his perfect mischievous smile and a pocketful of spiders.