A. Peevie wandered into my bedroom an hour or so after he was supposed to be asleep. He was rumpled, flushed, and tired-looking.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. I hate it when I have to parent after 9 p.m. I'm supposed to be off the clock. The union is very clear about that--but very bad about enforcement.
"I'm hot," he said. "And scared."
"OK, let's go back to your room and turn the fan on," I suggested. We walked down the hallway to his room.
"The fan's too loud," he said, as he climbed back into bed.
"OK, then, I'll open the window a little bit," I suggested.
"No, that's worse! That's even more scary!" he non sequitured.
I opened it anyway. "What are you scared of?" I asked, lying down next to him, and sliding my arm under his hot little head.
"Aliens," he said, matter-of-factly.
"Ah, aliens," I repeated. "Are you afraid that an alien will come in through the open window, take over my body, and be a better mom than I am?" I joked. A. Peevie was not amused.
He turned his head and looked at me. "You are not helping matters," he said, like a smallish adult who just happens to be afraid of aliens.
"Sorry," I said.
And all this talk about aliens reminds me that there's a new M. Night Shyamalan movie coming out in June. Yay.