Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Why I have bags under my eyes this week

I didn't realize what was going on when it started Sunday night. Seeing Jim off gets Syd wound up, so I expected we'd be up late. But this one blindsided me. It started at about 8:30.

"Hey, if you were a robot, you'd tell me, right?" she asked.


It was one "Suite Life" later (that's 30 minutes to all those who don't gauge their time based on Disney Channel shows) when the next robot-ish question came along.

"Are you SURE you're not a robot?"

I'm not a robot. I love you too much. Robots don't have emotions.

That didn't nip it in the bud as I'd hoped. There were plenty of other questions before bedtime:

"What if you were programmed to THINK you loved me?"

"What year were you born?"

"What year did they start making robots?"

Finally, we went to bed. She was scared and wanted me to sleep in her room, too, and leave the light on. I'm okay with that. When I'm tired enough, light doesn't bother me a bit!

I feel a tap on my shoulder and manage to open one eye a little. The clock says 12:0something.

"You know how your knee has been stiff? Do you think you just need oil?"

I'm not a robot. Go back to sleep.

Another tap. Another question. I don't remember it or the answer. I just remember saying, "Quit talking."

Many other taps continued through the night. Followed, of course, by various robot questions.

At one point I thought about using my best "digital" voice and saying, "Please repeat. Did not compute." Thank goodness I quickly realized the repercussions it would have and kept quiet.

The last response I recall giving, at 3:14 a.m. was, "I'm mad. MAD. Okay? I'm mad! Robot's don't get mad. I'm seriously mad. Mad enough to send you to your room for time out. You've GOT to quit talking and I've GOT to get some sleep. I. DON'T. WANT. TO. HEAR. ANOTHER. WORD. NOT. ANOTHER. WORD." I rolled over to face the other direction.

I heard a sigh of relief behind me. Her little voice quietly whispered, "At least I know for sure. Robot's don't get mad."