Scotty M fell asleep in my arms as I rocked him tonight. He’s getting old, old enough that there won’t be to many more occasions where he’ll just drift off like that. Tonight could have been the last one, for all I know.
Of course, ten minutes earlier he was screaming at the top of his lungs because I had the temerity to look at him and say “Time to read books?”, which he knows is code for “bedtime,” so I may not miss it as much as I think
“NO!” he told me, vehemently adding a “Wigguh!” on for emphasis.
“Wigguh!” is his latest catchall term, following in the footsteps of “Pah” (pacifier) and “Co” (cookie). It what he offers/demands as an alternative when presented with a course of action that he finds less than desirable–going to be, in this case. It means “Wiggles,” which in this case is more or less shorthand for “Play a Wiggles video or I’ll scream incessantly until you do.” We’ve been through this before. On other occasions it means Scotty M has spotted a Wiggle, either somewhere obvious, like on one of the million or so Australian-flavoured accessories that litter the house, or in a more unexpected place–like on the cover of Ngnat’s new library book. Hint: Look for Anthony
This can cause much distress in the household, such as when he refuses to let go of his sister’s book. It was that shouting match that led us to finally take Scotty to bed, Wigguh! be damned.
The routine is down fairly pat, though, so he calmed down pretty quickly. Books, songs–Yes John, some people still sing, though I must admit singing to the children at bedtime seems rather quaint, and not at all something I would have expected myself to do even 5 or 6 years ago–and then bed. The books tend to follow a regular pattern, as do the songs. We must start with The Little Green Frog Song, and we must finish with a tune I learned from my mother, a variation of All The Pretty Little Horses.
Go to sleep, little baby.
Go to sleep, little baby.
When you wake, you shall have sweet cake
And ride a pretty little pony.
In between them there’s a song about whisky, the inevitable song about a star, a passing mention or two of Jesus, and, given our parlous times, the Self Esteem Lullaby.
One day, he’s going to wake up and ask where the pony is.
All we got in tonight was frog and whisky before his eyelids drooped and his arms went from grasping his blanket to his chest to spread out beside his head. Not a peep out of him since, even after his sister began meowing back at the cats outside her bedroom window at the top of her voice.
Which is to be expected. If he can fall asleep in the middle of my singing, very little can ever be expected to disturb the rest of his slumbers.
