As I slumped on the couch this evening, besniffled and besnotted beside my lovely, enervated wife, my son ricocheted around the pinball machine that is our living room, singing and drawing on his hand and promulgating his many theories—like how you need to say "Excuse me" after you burp, fart, yawn, hiccup, cough, and sneeze (a difficult dictum to uphold when you're sick). There he was, a darling furious ball of energy, and all we could think of was the miles to go before we could sleep.
Eerily, my wife and I locked eyes and telepathically decided it would be great if Robert could somehow manage to strip off his own clothes, run his own bath, wash his own hair, dry his own backside, pull on his own pajamas, brush his own teeth, and sing himself to sleep. We held hands, closed our eyes, and focused all of our mental energy toward an unlikely miracle.
It didn't work.
