How to Not Go to Bed by Liam R.

8:00 pm.

Footsteps pound in the hallway overhead. The requisite following tap, tap, tap of bare feet down the front stairs, shiny and wooden.

Liam: My bottom is sore.

Me: Oh?

Liam: My bottom is sore because I ate something that I'm allergic to.

Me: What did you eat?

Liam: I ate... actually, it was just something I saw. Something I looked at that I was allergic to.

Me: What did you see?

Liam: (long, long pause). I saw... I saw... It was a little furry kind of mouse that I was allergic to. And it made my bottom sore.

Me: Oh. (suppressed laughter). Why don't I look at it. (look at bum). It looks a little red. Do you want some cream?

Liam: No, I just want some water. Actually some milk.

Me: Okay, but then you have to go to bed. (Get milk)

Liam sits on the couch. His legs are splayed out to the side, he's leaning on a pillow, backlit by the dwindling daylight.

Liam: I think I feel like a cocktail.

Me (turns head, laughs quietly into shoulder in the darkened kitchen)

Liam: Something spoiled my sleep. Something that I can't say. Something spoiled my sleep so I won't be able to sleep anymore.

Me: We're going to bed. I'm going to get you a new lullaby CD. (pulls one out of the cupboard). It's got ladies singing on it. (knowing he's obsessed with singing ladies)

Liam: I only like men's voices.

Me: Come on.

We go up the stairs, slowly, Liam dragging his feet. Go into his room, about 87 degrees. The fan is blowing right on his bed. I load up the CD, lie him in bed. Situate glass of water.

Liam: I didn't eat enough breakfast. I didn't eat enough breakfast and now my belly is aching.

Me: Good night, Liam. I love you.

Walks out door. Stops just outside door, leans head against wall, feeling the coolness of the damp, sweating plaster as the laughter is supressed and disapates, still listening to the son within moaning about his breakfast. Turn and keep walking to the stairs.

END ACT I.