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Little voices

My son is having a conversation with himself.  It's fairly common these days.  The mumbling, the sighing, the mouthing words without sound.  It happens all the time.

It makes my blood boil in my veins.  And also, my eyebrows shoot skyward like they have strings pulling them up.  It's very annoying.  (The eyebrows and the conversations.)

See, the thing is, I asked him to read a book.  A good book, one I've read and enjoyed.  (Pillage by Obert Skye, if you're interested.)  He's reading this book for school.  He has to read about 14 books by the end of the quarter.  I'm really hoping that means December but I'm not sure.

My son, bless him, went right into convulsions.

The body language alone is fascinating.  Arms and legs and head bobbing in separate directions.  And then there are the sounds.  Long exhalations of breath, lungs emptying at alarming rates, teeth pressed together so that the air comes out in a whistle, and limbs hitting against the floor or each other.  It's like a symphony of exasperation.

I'm just that difficult.

After the glorious display, I sent him to his bed.  Partly because he's clearly tired.  The dazzling exhibition is enhanced when he's cranky.  (He's not asleep yet after 30 minutes, but that's probably because his solo conversation was quite interesting, and partially due to his normal routine including a later bedtime.) 

But also because I'm tired.  And sending him to bed was some action on my part to alleviate the situation.  Of course, I felt bad right away and almost let him have a second chance.

Alas, I would have missed the soft sounds of his annoyance.  We wouldn't want that to happen.


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