This May Not Happen Tomorrow
The fleeting nature of almost-three, laundry, fire trucks, and a small voice singing.
I’m trying to get my son to nap.
He’s been a real handful all morning. At almost three years old, there’s no end to things he wants to do—which is good, except that he wants to do everything all at once. Three seconds into playing with blocks, it’s, “let’s go outside,” then before we can get his socks on, it’s, “I want to build a car!” By the time we get the wood parts out and the instructions unfolded, he declares, “No! Build a crane!” It’s driving me mad.
Almost nap time, I recite to myself, two stories and a song. Two stories, a song, then I get a break.
He’s in bed, literally jumping up and down, counting. We’ve been working on his numbers. He’s figured out that he can successfully delay nap time as long as he keeps counting, because I don’t want to discourage him.
“One, two, three, four, five, six…”
“Good job counting! Now what story would you—“
“seveneightnightteneleventwelvethirteenfourteen…”
Two stories and a song, I recite.
I’m thinking about the myriad of things I need to do once he’s asleep. Open packages. Laundry. Clean up that mess of screws and wood and plastic bits on the kitchen counter. Work out. Eat something, at some point. My stomach growls.
“…one hundred ten, one hundred ten one, one hundred ten two—“
“It’s one hundred and eleven, buddy. One hundred and twelve, then one hundred and—“
“THIRTEEN, one hundred FOURTEEN, one hundred…”
He makes it to a hundred and thirty-nine before he runs out of steam. “Mama tell a story!”
I cobble together something about a fire truck putting out a house fire, then getting pizza. Not my best work but he seems to think it’s all right. “Mama tell another fire truck story.”
One story and a song, I think. The next one’s about a fire truck rescuing a cat from a tree. Classic. Almost there.
“Mama sing a song. Sing Twinkle Twinkle.”
I sing. Home free, I think, and start planning to grab a protein bar while I get the laundry started then I’ll—
“Now I sing!” my toddler declares.
Wait, what? No, this isn’t the plan, I think. I’m done here. I’m about to go.
“Sing what, buddy? It’s time to sleep.”
“I’m going to sing the fire truck song!” he says, then he starts. “Here comes the fire truck… driving down the street. Hmm hmm hmm hmm.”
It’s a song from one of the Super Simple Songs videos we watch. I didn’t realize he knew so many of the words. Actually, all of them.
“Here comes the fire truck.. beep, beep, beep! Hmm hmm hmm… hmm.”
My stomach growls, but I suddenly hear something else. A voice in my head saying, This may not happen tomorrow.
“Here comes the fire truck… look at it go!”
That’s right, I think. He’s only going to be almost-three once. These fleeting interests, days of trying everything, learning to count—it won’t last. You know what will be the same tomorrow? Packages. The messy kitchen counter. Laundry.
“Here comes the fire truck, wave hello. Ooo-wee-ooo, ooo-wee-ooo, ooo-wee-ooo…”
I stop waiting patiently for him to finish and go to sleep, and I start paying attention instead. I listen to his not-yet-developed little-kid voice try to sing on pitch, the audible fledgling attempts at changing his vocal register. I hear when he pauses to remember more words, his brain switching modes, gears just learning to turn in concert with each other. I’m impressed that he really does know all the words in the song. Every verse.
When he finishes, I suddenly wish he’d start over. I didn’t think to get a voice recording.
But the moment’s gone. He says, “Now Mama hug,” which means he’s ready for sleep. Suddenly, it’s too soon.
“Big hugs,” I say as I hug him tight. “Good job singing, buddy.”
He starts up again as the bedroom door closes. “Here comes the fire truck…”
I stand outside his door and listen.