The Problem With Five Year Olds.

On Monday nights, Maymo has Beavers. He looooooooooves Beavers. It’s basically a party for small kids in which they run around and scream and glue things together and run around some more.

He likes it so much that on Fridays, when the rest of us are excited about the impending weekend, he’ll remind us that it’s just “three more days ’til Beavers!”

Beavers is from 6:30 to 7:30pm. His bedtime, normally, is 7:30pm.

(Those of you with children can already tell where this is going…)

A few days ago, he came home from school and told us that his 7:30 bedtime was too early – per his teacher’s statement – and that “she told me I should be awake until 8 or later!”

We reminded him that his teacher doesn’t live with us and that we knew he needed to be in bed earlier. He eyed us suspiciously.

On Mondays, he misses his 7:30 bedtime and is often climbing into bed a little after 8pm. Then there’s the bedtime story. Then he rolls around and tries to “come down” from the excitement of Beavers.. which means, ultimately, he’s not getting to sleep until much, much later than he should.

This makes Tuesday SUCK. An overtired 5 year old is like a limp dishrag combined with a surly, stubborn mule, with a heavy dose of drunken teenager thrown in.

We got home today and Maymo went into the bathroom to pee. A few seconds later I heard him sobbing (incidentally, bathroom-sobbing?.. NOTHING good can come of it). I asked what was wrong and through the door he replied, “My belt is broken!” with a wail, at the end, for good measure.

“Your belt?”

“It’s BROKEN! I BROKE MY BELT! IT IS BROKEN!” .. sob, sob, hysterical sob.

“How ’bout you go pee, flush, wash your hands and then we’ll talk about it, ok? Maybe we can fix it!” I replied.

No dice. He sobbed and he sobbed and he sobbed. And, several minutes later, he was still sobbing when I picked the bathroom lock and walked in to find him sitting on the lid of the toilet (fully clothed) clutching his belt and sobbing.

I took the belt in my hands, prodded him to flush and wash his hands, and escorted him to the sandwich on the table. I told him that Dad could look at the belt, later, and if it was permanently broken we could probably buy another one.

He cried more while he ate. A muffled sort of “Huh Huh Huh Mrphchewchew Huh Huh”.

Couldn’t stop. I hugged. I tried reasoning. Nada. He cried like his best friend had died.

Then he finished eating and, with a tear-stained smile, said, “I have another belt up in my room!”

Of course.

He’s taking a nap now.