Wednesday, August 24, 2005


The four year old, like many of her ilk, is an expert in the art of crying. She weeps at the unfairness of life when told she must put her toys away. Is heartbroken at the injustice of broccoli for dinner. At the arduous bedtime routine she sobs and flails like a basketball star trying to convince the ref he's been fouled. (Fortunately she doesn't throw temper tantrums at the store perhaps sensing, correctly, that the result would be permanent exile from all the delights those consumer palaces have to offer.)

All this bawling and gnashing goes on despite the fact that she gets very little sympathy from her cold hearted parents: "If you're going to make such a fuss, you have to go cry in your room." "And shut the door!" I add when she wisely increases the decibel level to compensate. Her sister, on the other hand, is such a softy that she often gives up a coveted toy to shut the four year old up. "What's the matter now!" she says, stomping off to investigate the caterwauling coming from the other room. (Come to think of it, the four year old's antics may be aimed at her sister, not us.)

But last night the four year old broke through our wall of indifference. At about 2 am we heard sobbing coming from the kids' room. But no tiny visitors made their way to our bed. Alarmed, we investigated. It was the four year old. She was asleep. Asleep and crying.

There is something heartrending about a weeping, sleeping child. She could have had anything from us at that point. We didn't wake her. In the morning we asked her about her dreams.

"Huh?" she responded, puzzled.


Sheesh. All of my best efforts to render your blog shallow and meaningless are undone with one tender anecdote about an adorable little girl.

By Blogger John, at 4:35 PM  

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