Rockstar hasn’t grown any taller. He’s been 89 cm tall for at least 2 months.
Most of the time now he doesn’t want his height measured. “No need. I didn’t grow.” (Yes, it’s a little heartbreaking)
He’s not really a lightweight, he consoles himself: “I’m getting heavier!” when I struggle to pick him up to push the elevator buttons with a bag of groceries in the other hand.
(Fortunately he’s not a foodie – he eats to satisfy hunger and the occasional craving for preferential treatment that manifests in marshmallow privileges because the dog doesn’t get any, but that’s about it.) But honestly a lot of the weight is in his head. No, seriously – his big, solid-skulled head.
So anyway after 2 bouts of coughing up his meals, we were at the pediatrician’s yesterday and I took the opportunity to ask. “His height chart was much worse a year ago,” Dr Wong shows us. “And anyway there are so many factors determining height, the main one being genetics.”
Ah, yes. At just under 5ft 7 inches, I’m the shortest in my family, earning me the nickname “Shorty.” Kings is 5ft 7, most his family shorter, but not significantly so.
It seems I may have to give up that very shallow aspiration of one day walking along the street next to my strapping young man of a son, who towers a head taller than me.
Then “There’s also his sleep pattern. What time does he get to bed?” Uh… I steel myself for a lecture. Rockstar is nocturnal. If we didn’t fight about it he’d probably conk out at midnight and sleep til mid morning. As is, we reach a shaky compromise somewhere around 11pm. Here it comes.
“Most parents put their children to bed at 8pm… 10 is the absolute latest you should aim for.” I hope my son is listening.
See Rockstar. You got Mummy in trouble with That Nice Lady Doctor You Insist On Seeing The Moment You Get The Slightest Cough.
Her reproachful look makes me want to point at Rockstar,
“He started it, he wouldn’t go to bed!”
“He wants to read ALL his Mr Men books before he’ll settle down!”
“HE HAS MORE THAN TWENTY MR MEN BOOKS!!”
What really comes out is “Uhh… can’t he sleep in in the morning?”
Yes, but she’d rather he go to bed early AND try to sleep in the next day. Fair enough, Rockstar has always slept the absolute minimum number of hours acceptable for a child his age. He just. Won’t. Sleep. Small consolation he sleeps thru the night except for the occasional bad dream or late night glass of water.
So we tried it last night:
8.30pm: I open with, “Oh, look at the time, we should be in the bedroom with our reading.” Rockstar looks up at me like I’m mad and doesn’t reply.
8.40pm: “Rockstar, can we take it into the room please?”
8.50pm: My son is in the bedroom. That’s what I asked for. He’s running in circles on our King-sized bed, to the tune of Incy Wincy Spider. It’s supposed to be a spider impersonation. Not what I asked for.
9.00pm: “I’m hungry.”
“What about more of your dinner?”
“Want something else, PLEEEEEEASSE”
9.15pm: “Want some milk, PLEEEEEEASSE”
“Want to come (to the kitchen), want to come! Want to make milk myself, PLEEEEEEASSE”
9.30pm: “Brush my teeth slowly, PLEEEEEEASSE”
9.35pm: “Want something else, PLEEEEEEASSE”
Will he take cereal?
“Want to come (to the kitchen), want to come, PLEEEEEEASSE”
9.50pm: “Brush my teeth slowly, PLEEEEEEASSE”
9.55pm: “Want to call Grandmum, PLEEEEEEASSE”
10.00pm: “Grandmum” and “Grandpop” triumphantly play this horrendously loud police car siren they got from Jusco over the phone.
WEEEEWOOOOWEEEEWOOOOWEEEEWOOOOWEEEEWOOOO
“Uhh, that sounds REALLY loud. Aren’t your neighbors going to mind?”
“Nooo! They’d mind if we played that at 12 o’clock. It’s not 12 o’clock now, is it?”
10.15pm: Grandmum decides to break out the big guns. While Grandpop runs distraction, she unwraps another police car she already packed in a box ready to mail over to Hong Kong from Penang.
This time the ensuing siren sound coming over the phone is interspersed with “PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! PUT YOUR……..”
(In case you’re wondering why we let them do all the crazy shopping it’s because the grandparents seem to derive as big a kick as Rockstar out of all the toys they’re buying. Every toy fair, possibly every toy sale held in Penang or Seremban, they’re there. We give them shopping money, which is pretty much grandparent entertainment money.
Rockstar picks a few favorites and then we donate the rest.)
10.20pm: The dog has had enough. JD shakes herself, rattling her dog chains to get my attention, then stares at the door, waiting for me to open it and let her out of the bedroom.
10.30pm: Goodnight, grandparents. But the sirens have inspired Rockstar to party on like a……. well, you know. He starts running in circles to Incy Wincy again.
10.35pm: “ROCK-STAR!!”
10.36pm: Rockstar gets the hint. But now he’s clutching his more than 20 Mr Men books. Every night my voice gets gradually more monotonous, hoping the droning will inspire Rockstar to nod off by book 5 or 6. On bad nights we go thru every single one before he’ll finally turn over in satisfaction and say “No more books, thank you.”
10.45pm: Bedtime Prayer
10.50pm: “Want some water, PLEEEEEEASSE”
10.55pm: “I need the toilet”
11.00pm: “Want cereal, PLEEEEEEASSE”
“Rockstar– SLEEP!!”
11.05pm: “Gabble gabble gabble gabble” to himself
“ROCKSTAR!”
<silence>
11.20pm: “Gabble gabble gabble gabble”
I grit my teeth and pretend I don’t hear it.
11.30pm: zzzzzzz
Some nights Kings has come into the room to find me asleep, the Rockstar is still gabbling quietly to himself.
When his father comes in, he’ll look up and grin. “I win”.
