It happened yesterday on the way to the barbershop.
I was chattering, “You’re going to be a good boy, right? I mean, you’re going to make good choices? Sit still? Don’t cry? Don’t squirm or fidget?”
There was no sound from the backseat. I turned around and saw Eamon staring quietly out the window.
“Because if you’re good we can go to Barnes & Noble and get some Spiderman books.” (Does it count as bribery if you were planning to do it anyway?) “You like books, right? Would you like some Spiderman books? I mean, you can get another superhero if you want, like the X-Men or Captain America or—”
“MOMMY! STOP TALKING!” yelled Eamon suddenly. “You talking too much! I wanna be quiet. YOU be quiet now.”
“Excuse me?” I gasped.
Eamon thought for a minute, and then added, “Please.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. When I was younger, my mother used to ask if I talked just to hear my own voice and tell me I just had to be quiet for awhile because she needed some peace and quiet. Then I had a child, and it was supposed to be MY turn to tell someone they talked too much. I have been anxiously awaiting that moment for almost three years now.
Instead, at his insistence, we drove the rest of the way in silence. He did say "please."
I used the time to reflect that, probably soon, he would also be telling me to clean my room and not stay up all night reading.
(EPILOGUE: He was a good boy, he got the Spiderman books, and later when I was telling Aaron about the incident, Eamon piped up from the back seat, “What you TALKING about, Mommy? You no make sense! You crazy.” Sigh.)
I mean, he LOOKS like the kind of kid who talks a lot, right? And he DOES. Just not as much as his mother, apparently.