Just before midnight I hear that unmistakable sound. I am being summoned by the big boss man.
I enter his room. The look in my fifteen month old’s eyes seem to say, “I noticed you treated my sister preferentially today. And for that, I’m a gunna make you pay.”
He invites me to have a seat. I sit there, rocking (him) nervously, wondering what this punishment would entail. Suddenly, he grabs my fingers in his death grip, there is no avoiding it. It’s clear he is upset, but I am literally racking my brains thinking what I could have possible done to have incurred his wrath.
At the first opportunity when I thought he was distracted, I attempt to slip out, cautiously looking over my shoulder for one of his henchmen who might be following me. No sooner do I get out the door when he notices I am gone. I hear him call for me again.
“You’ll leave when I tell you you can leave, capiche? Now bring me my bottle!”
I rush away to get his bottle. Eight ounces, warmed up. Just like he likes it. Then we sit down again, this time he gets close, right up in my face. His eyes stare straight into mine and he gives a sort of patronizing pat on my cheek. “Good boy” he says. Then without warning the pat turns into a pinch just so he knows, that I know, never to try anything like that again.
[My son is usually a sweet and lovely boy. Sometimes though he calls me into his room in the middle of the night, and I can’t help but feel like he’s the one who’s really running the show and I’m just his puppet. ]