Moms, dads beware—the secret weapon is awake ~ June 6, 1985

David Heiller

I have a secret weapon that could probably be sold to the highest bidder and used in the torture chambers of totalitarian regimes throughout the world. This weapon doesn’t cost millions of dollars, wasn’t developed by the military, and isn’t even illegal. But under controlled situations it will force the stiffest of upper lips into jelly, and melt nerves of steel into lead.

I discovered the weapons Sunday morning, at 5 a.m. My wife and I had celebrated our fifth anniversary the previous night, with dinner and a Greg Brown concert in Duluth. We had finally got the babysitter home, and settled ourselves into bed by 2 a.m. That made the weapon even more potent three hours later.

Small cute boy?
Not really, more like a diabolical 
weapon on the morning here described.

Cindy heard it first, and deserves much of the blame. Thump. The sound of bare feet sliding out of bed in the next room. Pad-pad-pad-pad. Those tiny feet approaching with both stealth and firmness. The blankets tightening around two groggy adults, as two little fists grab, pull, and hoist 29 pounds of boy onto the bed. Up lift the blankets, in slides the weapon, warm, snuggling, smiling.

For perhaps a minute, all is well, the calm before the storm. While Mom and Dad pull the covers up to their chins and mumble something to each other, the secret agent’s eyes open. All semblance of fatigue is gone from those blue eyes. They are the eyes of a wide awake, two-year-old boy at 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

This agent goes by the name of Noah. In your house, it may be Emily, or Mathew, or Joseph, or Amber. Names differ, but techniques are universal.

“Mo-mower grahch,” he starts, standing on the mattress looking out the window. “Mo-mower grahch. Mo-mower grahch.”

Yes, the lawn mower is in the garage,” I answer. My eyes are open slightly, staring at the ceiling and the towering boy.

“Why?”

I started to answer, then catch myself, and instead turn my back to him. He kneels by my head, grabs my beard, and pulls my face to his.

“Daddy.”

I don’t answer.

“Daddy.” Two quick kisses. Something is up. “Daddy. Dasses, OK?”

Now I am awake. Two kisses in his mind are worth my glasses, which rest on the night stand next to the bed.

“No, you can’t have my glasses,” I say while catching his arm as it passes over my head.

“Why?”

I don’t answer him. Instead I call out to Cindy. I want to make sure she is a part of this. “Why did you let him in bed?” I ask.

“I thought he’d fall right asleep,” she answers in an embarrassed voice. A two-year-old falling back to sleep on a Sunday morning once in bed with Mom and Dad? She seemed to realize now how foolish the notion sounded.

Dancing with Mama and her midsection.

But my diversion worked. Noah turned his attention to Momma He started grilling her with small talk. The birds are singing. April was here last night. She’s a nice babysitter. I would like a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. The lawn mower is in the garage. Is Margot coming today? Binti is sleeping. Miss Emma is sleeping. Let’s go downstairs. I want juice.

Cindy rolled over onto her back. That seemed to be Noah’s intention. He eyed the 22 extra pounds of a soon-to-be brother or sister on Momma’s midsection. His eyes sparkled like a mountain climber gazing for the first time at the Matterhorn. Then he started climbing, draping the bulge like a barrel.

“Noah. Daddy, help!” Cindy groaned.

“You let him in bed,” I said, not moving.

“I know, I know,” she answered, holding back expletives with sheer Mother willpower.

By this time, we were both awake. The clock said 5:30. The Sunday sun was almost over the horizon. Birds were calling everywhere, catbirds, robins, mourning doves.

“What the heck, we might as well get up, huh?” I suggested.

Noah was already sliding off the bed, leading the way downstairs. The secret weapon had won.