Setting: Six o’clock in the morning (on a Saturday). Pitch dark outside. Four-year-old is wide awake. Meanwhile, my husband and I—along with the two-year-old—are still deluding ourselves into thinking we get to sleep in on Saturday.
I awaken to the sound of my son attempting to turn off the plug-in nightlight we keep in our bedroom. I say nothing…secretly hoping he’ll meander back to bed and think better of this ridiculous early-wakeup scheme.
My husband stirs awake, and feels compelled to say something: “Son, make sure you turn on the bathroom light before you turn off the nightlight. It’s pretty dark in here.” (*Note: I probably would have gone with something more along the lines of “Go back to bed, Son.” My fault for not speaking. Not that it would have mattered.)
Son says nothing. Still fidgeting with the nightlight, trying to find the switch.
Husband: “Make sure you turn on the bathroom light before you turn off the nightlight.”
Son (in a tone of voice that’s as serious as the day is long): “I can’t see a thing.”
Me: Giggling into the pillow. (Gotta laugh or I’ll cry. Not a fan of 6 AM.)
Husband (clearly not seeing the humor in the situation): “Son…You need to turn on the bathroom light.”
Son: “Well, how do you expect me to do that, Dad?… I. Can’t. See. A. Thing.
Two-year-old: Raging squeal of a prematurely-awakened toddler, the wrath of which Hell hath no fury to replicate.
And we’re up…
Addendum: Now five hours later, I’m finally coherent enough to document this riveting story. My son (the four-year-old) is folding laundry. I’m telling you, the kid’s a machine…Starting to question if he’s actually human.