Mendolonium

It’s ten-thirty and Jeff has just emerged from the boys’ room after putting Thomas to bed, “What did you read him tonight?” he asks shaking his head.  “He’s scared of panthers.”.  “Oh”, I reply knowingly, “Not tonight…last night.  The story of grandpa and the panther in chapter two.  Tonight was chapter three:  The Long Rifle.”

Two nights ago I decided that Thomas and I had had enough of children’s books about bunnies, bears, and the occasional hapless monster.  I decided it was time to introduce Thomas to my favorite books of all time:  The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I explained to him that we would read a chapter every night.  The past three nights he has listened with rapt attention, hanging on every word.  While the stories of wolves, butchering pigs, and loading guns must in many ways seem like utter fantasy to a boy who has spent his entire life in vegetarian household located a densely populated inner suburb, he seems to grasp my explanation that the books are real, that they tell a story of the way things were.  After each chapter he asks me questions rapid-fire, like a tiny sleeper clad lawyer cross-examining a witness that he knows holds the truth.   “Why does Laura not want Susan [her corncob doll] to see her holding Mary’s doll?”, “Where are Laura and Mary’s toys?”, “Is a panther a bad animal?”.

A few minutes after Jeff came out of the den of supposedly sleeping boys Henry woke up for the 3rd time tonight.  It was my turn so I went in to soothe him back to sleep, pausing to listen at the boys’ door – just to make sure he did not settle him back to sleep.  For a brief few moments there was silence and then a wail punctuated the darkness seemed to demand, “Pick me up right now!”  I sprung into the room and swept Henry from his crib.  And then I heard a small, quiet sobbing from Thomas’ bed.  I looked over to see him huddled in the corner, tears shining on his face.  I sat down with Henry on Thomas’ bed – trying to comfort my two sad little boys.  I quickly called Jeff in and handed him the baby – instantly eliciting sobs of unjust protest from Henry.  Jeff left the room to walk with Henry and I asked Thomas what was wrong.  “I’m scared.”  “What is scaring you?” I asked with concern.  “Henry crying”, he replied pitifully, “He was crying and Mama needed to come pick him up.”  “Oh”, I said touched by his empathy for his brother and his obvious dependence on us as his parents to fix that which ails them.  I stroked his head, a gesture he usually shrugs away from, but tonight allowed me and told him that we would always take care of him and his brother; that we loved them so much; that we will keep them safe.  Thomas quieted and I breathed a sigh of relief when his eyes popped open and he stated with a bit of a question in his voice, “Panthers only live in Florida…”  “Yes, that’s right.  There are no panthers in California.  And our house has big strong walls, and doors, and windows so even if there were panthers here they could not get in.  And Kermit would bark at them so we would know they were coming.”  I said giving everything I had in reassurance.   The thought of our fourteen pound dog yapping away at a panther either comforted him of amused him and he smiled.  Jeff came back in the room with a now sleeping Henry.  For a few minutes the four of us were together in quiet darkness, warm in the only heated room in the house, secure in the knowledge that we and those that we love the most were all safe.

To my boys:  we may put you down, we may leave the room, but we will never let the panthers get you.

This entry was posted on Sunday, February 14th, 2010 at 1:39 am and is filed under Theodore, Thomas. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.