I sit on the edge of the bed of the six-year-old boy. Come to bed, I say. He stands by the door to his bedroom.
Watch this first, he insists. He pauses for a moment with his eyes focused on the bed. The space from doorway to bed frame becomes a tumbling runway, and he judges the running steps to become airborne just at the edge of the mattress.
His momentum carries him up and over into a forward flip that lands on the middle part of his back. He completes the roll and lands on his feet, standing on the bed. The lingering energy burst forces him to jump up and down on the mattress, despite the fact that he knows that jumping on the bed is not allowed.
“Don’t jump on the bed,” I admonish.
“Oh, I forgot,” he says. “What did you think of my flip?” he asks.
“It looks mighty dangerous,” I reply. “I’m afraid you might hurt your head or your neck.” This is typical of my boy.
His body demands these physical actions. Sometimes in meeting these demands, he loses his head. I tuck in my son and move to the bedroom next door to help my daughter to bed.
She is reading. I take her reading pillow from her, and as I put it on the floor by her bed, I see the instructions for the care of her braces tacked to her wall.
I say, “Sweetie, this paper cannot be tacked to the wall. You know the painters are coming tomorrow. You will have to take it down.”
Distressed, she cries, “Mom, I can’t. I must follow the rules for my braces. What will I do?”
This is typical of my girl. She is so serious about the rules. They all go to her head.