The 4:00am Thing
A few weeks ago, I was wrapping up a conversation with my mother. "It's almost ten," I said. "I should call Nick, anyway."
I could hear the wheels turning--she travels. She knows. "Honey, it's...do you know what time it is there?"
See how parent-y that is? It's calculated underreaction; it's wonderful. I wanted to reward it by making it clear that her concern for Nick, while very sweet, is unnecessary. "It's four; I know. He asks me to call then, so that he can fall back asleep after." It sounded plausible.
"Oh. Well, that sounds..." (she's trying, she's trying) "...like torture." She's only human.
The thing is that Nick insists on this. Seriously! He gets all petulant when I don't call him in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, on nearly all of those occasions I did call, but he didn't wake up fully enough to remember it. This, of course, has led to an ugly escalation where I have been forced to find ways to make sure he registers the conversation. (Some might urge me to just refer him to his cell phone's call logs. Those people are clearly amateurs.)
What works best so far is drilling some random thing into his head. The next day, when he accuses me of not having called, I'll ask him about the thing, and bask in his confusion as recall kicks in. But we certainly experiment: the other night he wound up singing the alphabet to me for about five minutes. "I'm really glad I didn't just dream that," he said the next day. "That was a weird one."
The trouble is, I can never tell when he's just giving me a hard time. Don't bother asking him. He'll say he would never do such a thing. Then he will add that it's a shame that I feel compelled to spread rumors about him--like it's not bad enough that I constantly wake him in the dead of night.
"Why didn't you call me last night?" he demanded yesterday.
"I did. Remember? Your phone was having trouble?"
"What kind of trouble?" Even to my jaded ear, he sounds genuinely curious, rather than mischievous.
"The call kept connecting, but we couldn't hear each other. You woke up and called me back." I am not crazy. It's not my fault that he is an evil genius.
"Huh," he says. Blankly. Maddeningly.
But here's the payoff, a few minutes later: "You know, I'm really tired today. I don't know why."
Evil genius.
I could hear the wheels turning--she travels. She knows. "Honey, it's...do you know what time it is there?"
See how parent-y that is? It's calculated underreaction; it's wonderful. I wanted to reward it by making it clear that her concern for Nick, while very sweet, is unnecessary. "It's four; I know. He asks me to call then, so that he can fall back asleep after." It sounded plausible.
"Oh. Well, that sounds..." (she's trying, she's trying) "...like torture." She's only human.
The thing is that Nick insists on this. Seriously! He gets all petulant when I don't call him in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, on nearly all of those occasions I did call, but he didn't wake up fully enough to remember it. This, of course, has led to an ugly escalation where I have been forced to find ways to make sure he registers the conversation. (Some might urge me to just refer him to his cell phone's call logs. Those people are clearly amateurs.)
What works best so far is drilling some random thing into his head. The next day, when he accuses me of not having called, I'll ask him about the thing, and bask in his confusion as recall kicks in. But we certainly experiment: the other night he wound up singing the alphabet to me for about five minutes. "I'm really glad I didn't just dream that," he said the next day. "That was a weird one."
The trouble is, I can never tell when he's just giving me a hard time. Don't bother asking him. He'll say he would never do such a thing. Then he will add that it's a shame that I feel compelled to spread rumors about him--like it's not bad enough that I constantly wake him in the dead of night.
"Why didn't you call me last night?" he demanded yesterday.
"I did. Remember? Your phone was having trouble?"
"What kind of trouble?" Even to my jaded ear, he sounds genuinely curious, rather than mischievous.
"The call kept connecting, but we couldn't hear each other. You woke up and called me back." I am not crazy. It's not my fault that he is an evil genius.
"Huh," he says. Blankly. Maddeningly.
But here's the payoff, a few minutes later: "You know, I'm really tired today. I don't know why."
Evil genius.
posted by Caroline | 11/10/2006 06:07:00 PM
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