Simon was sitting in my lap late, late, late at night. Actually, he was mostly sitting on my elbow. Bedtime had been delayed by one emergency or another. Samantha was already asleep, and I was just waiting for Josh to put Simon to bed while I nursed Seth down.
Simon was talking to himself, as he often does, but the volume and tone were getting more insistent. I tuned in to hear, “I’m talking to you. I’m talking to you.”
Exhausted, I waved Seth, puppet-like, at Simon. “Are you talking to Seth?” I’m just a tad obsessive about getting the boys to interact.
“I’m talking to you,” Simon responded.
“Seth loves you. He loves to talk to you.”
Cheerfully, Simon repeats, “I’m talking to you.”
I’m not firing on all cylinders. “Wanna give Seth a kiss?”
Simon’s eyes narrow. “I’m talking to you!”
I’m too tired to talk anymore and just stare at the TV, hoping Josh will rescue my elbow soon, and wondering if it’s been long enough since the last time I asked him about it to not count as nagging if I ask again.
Simon watches me for a moment. “Fine, then! I’m talking to myself.”
And finally, understanding dawns. Simon was talking to me. God, give my children patience.