The Kleenex Box

The light sneaks through the closed blinds in Austen’s room making it seem like it’s noon rather than 7:30pm. I’m beginning to dislike daylight savings time now that my 2½ year-old can tell the difference between day and night and refuses to go to bed. I read him books, rub his back and sing him songs until I see the clock approaching 7:45pm, then I leave.

Austen wails loudly, “I have to go pee pee!” I return and assist him to the bathroom where he somehow convinces himself to pee even though he already peed not 15minutes earlier. “Now I have to go poo poo,” he informs me. I plop him down on the toilet and wait for him to tell me “bye,” which he does when he has to go number two. I pace in the hallway, waiting for him to call me for assistance so I can put him back in bed. After five minutes, there’s no progress on his bathroom adventure. “Okay, you’re done,” I tell him as I realize that he doesn’t have to go but is merely avoiding his bedtime.

He returns to his room, grabs his blue blanket and proceeds to sing to himself but not before telling me I need to be on the computer outside his room. I pretend to work there. After about five minutes I retire to our lower level to watch some TV and listen to him try to put himself to sleep on the monitor. After about 30 minutes, I still hear movement in his room. By now it’s almost 8:30pm and the sky has long since grown dark. I trudge upstairs and peek in his room. Austen is sitting up in bed, an empty Kleenex box in his hands and his floor covered in balled up tissues.

After, snapping this picture, I calmly collect the tissues, stuff them back into the box and set them out of his reach. I tell Austen one last time it’s time for bed and walk out the door trying not to let him see me smile.

Then, I thank my lucky stars that I have a boy. A girl would have found the scissors and probably cut her hair.