I worked late the other night. The kids were in bed when I got home. I peeked in on them and couldn’t resist giving them the softest of fairy kisses so as not to wake them.
Of course, my son woke. He sat up and asked for a glass of a water. I brought him to the kitchen, gave him his water and brushed his hair off his forehead as he drank. Then we turned the light out and I carried him back to bed.
Unbeknownst to me, he had gone to bed with a tiny toy in his hand. At some point before I arrived home and went in to check on him, he had dropped it in bed or on the floor. Of course, this was the thing that his mind was focused on the second I laid him down and started to cover him up.
He asked me to find it for him. I looked, then I shook my head and whispered, “I can’t find it. We’ll look for it in the morning.” That wasn’t good enough. So I looked again. Without success, I shook my head and kissed his forehead saying, “It’s here somewhere. We’ll find it in the morning when the sun is up and there’s lots of light in your room.” He started to
whine cry. “It’s OK,” I tell him. “We’ll find it in the morning.” I started to leave the room.
The whining got louder.
I chose to ignore it. It was, after all, almost midnight. I was tired. He was tired. He would forget about it in a minute or so and drift back to sleep.
Moments later, there was silence in the house again. As I suspected, he had gone back to sleep; the toy temporarily forgotten.
But I’m sure I’ll hear about it first thing in the morning.