Rock On

I love to rock. Not rock out, although I do play a pretty mean Guitar Hero. What I love is rocking in a rocking chair. By myself is okay, but I particularly like it if a little tyke is in my arms, snuggled up to me while I sing little songs my mom taught me when she rocked me, so long ago.

Okay, that's the wonderland version. Here's how it really goes:

"C'mere sleepyhead, let's rock for a few minutes before you go to bed." Child climbs up on lap. Child wants to play "Ride a Pony" on Mom's knees. Mom bounces for a couple seconds, then gently tries to press Child's head down onto her shoulder for a rest.

Child strains neck to see what dad's watching on TV. Mom sings lullabye at unnaturally loud volume. Child covers Mom's mouth with her hand. Child's hand tastes like peanut butter and sweat, and Mom spits. Dad glances over just then and asks Mom to mind her manners.

Child has to go potty. Mom continues rocking and is almost asleep by the time Child returns, but is abruptly awakened by Child's knee hitting her diaphragm. Immediate response upon being awakened is more singing.

Child can't get comfortable. Due to constant fidgeting, neither can Mom. Mom sighs, and tells Child to close her eyes right away. Child closes them, just not both of them at the same time. Child finds this hilariously funny, Mom less so.

Mom falls asleep. Child turns around and watches TV until Dad tells her to go to bed, around 11 p.m.

Mom and Child are both a little cranky in the morning, and one of them also has a stiff neck.

The End.

Despite all this, I still love rocking. Here's my terrible confession: a little teeny part of me likes it when my kids are sick, because then they let me rock them.

I think I might need to get a cat.