Bobbing Along

A few weekends ago, we kept the Rooster for an overnight, a “sweepover” as he called it. After his parents dropped him off, we three, the Rooster, BaBa and I, headed outside to play in the small grotto that has become Rooster’s Pirates’ Cove. We had set up our very old, rather ragged, rope hammock because, as you must know, pirates sleep on hammocks. (Did you not know that? Well. Now you do.)

Getting into and out of a hammock can be a little tricky so Baba himself demonstrated the skill. And, uh, the hammock broke. I will not editorialize here. I have already mentioned the hammock was old. I shall go no further than that. (Cough, cough.)

Fortunately, other than his pride, Baba was not at all hurt and we continued to play for quite some time, chasing down Captain Hook and Smee and any other scoundrels that Rooster’s imagination produced.

Evening came. Bath time. Story time. Stalling-from-bedtime time. Eventually, the Rooster fell asleep. Baba and I collapsed in our room not long after. (Enter soft snoring sounds here.)

3 am.

“Baba! BABA!” Baba leaves our room to check on the Rooster. Through the baby monitor, I listen to their conversation:

“Baba, could you sweep wif me?”

“Rooster, I think I’m too big for that bed.”

“Don’t worry, Baba, you won’t break dis bed. Dis is not a pirate bed.”

At which point Baba, chastened, perhaps embarrassed, climbs in. (Enter muffled giggles from my bed.) Quiet returns.

4:30am.

I hear voices over the baby monitor. A very chipper three-year-old is chatting merrily away. He is awake and ready to go. Baba is not. Neither am I. After several minutes listening to a very groggy Baba try to convince the Rooster that it is definitely not time to get up, I walk to the doorway of the guest room and just stand there, hands on hips. (This is a technique well-practised by years and years of three children giggling with overnight friends.) With as serious an expression as I can muster, I quietly but firmly say, “Boys, it is not time for talk. It is time for sleep. Go to sleep right now. Good night.”

And after a brief discussion about Mommom being cranky, both “boys” settle down and quiet reigns. Again.

7:30am.

“Wake up Mommom!” This lively little voice brings a smile to my face, even though the rest of my body groans “No-o-o-o! More sle-e-e-e-e-p!” Baba and Rooster have burst into the bedroom, ready now for breakfast and a day of play—most likely in the Pirates’ Cove. As Baba heads into the bathroom, the Rooster turns to me and begins an unsolicited explanation of the night’s events. And this is what he says:

“You know, Mommom, dat Baba talks all da time. He talks and talks and talks. I tell him it’s not time for talking it’s time for sweeping. But all he does is talk and talk. I not do dat talking. I’m just a widdle guy.”

And with that announcement, with all the innocence and guile that only a three year old can get away with, the Rooster threw his grandfather right under the bus.

I so love that widdle guy.