Midnight Talker

When I was much, much younger, I used to think the words of that song by The Steve Miller Band went something like this:

I'm a joker
I'm a smoker
I'm a midnight TALKER

Of course, I grew up and figured out that Mr. Miller was not, in fact, singing about late night chatting sessions with your best friend during a sleepover.  Too bad, because I'm all for staying up 'til midnight discussing the intricacies of life over a cup of coffee.  In a house full of loud and rowdy boys, I rarely get such a chance unless my husband and I actually find a few minutes here or there to discuss something of importance before someone a) cries b) breaks something or c) invents yet another use for bathroom toiletries (FYI: some shampoos, while seemingly awesome follicular cleansing agents, also masquerade as permanent carpet stainers.  Who knew?)

The thing about having boys is that I almost never get a lengthy or informative conversation out of them during daylight hours.  They are way too busy,  in constant states of motion or physical exertion.  If I were to ask my oldest son a slew of investigative questions on any given day, the answers would range among the following four responses:  yes, no, I don't know and I don't remember.  

However, if you tell a boy it's bedtime, he'll grant you an interview worthy of the top spot on 60 Minutes. 

One of my friends and I have had numerous conversations on how the absolute best time to get useful information out of your child is at bedtime.  Suddenly, the idea of telling you anything and everything you ever wanted to know is highly preferred over the dreadful and boring alternative of sleeping.  I have been privy to all sorts of top secret elementary school information during our "midnight" (code: 8:30 pm) talks, such as who got in a fight at recess, who talked back to the teacher and who (gasp!) cut in the lunch line.  These interesting (and often hilarious) reports are usually prefaced with "Mom, you will not believe this," so that I grasp the significance and/or severity of the information he's about to divulge.  These discussions usually leave me walking away with a big grin on my face.

But then some nights, they turn more serious or inquisitive in nature. 

Our "midnight" talk from Tuesday night went something like this:

Gman:  Mom, when I go to college someday, can I take all of my books with me?  Like, even my Lego book and my Flat Stanley book and my yearbook?

Me:  Of course you can!  I have lots of books from when I was young and they are still on my bookshelf.  If you take care of them, they will last a long, long time.  We'll just pack them up and you can take them wherever you decide to go.

Gman:  Ok wait a minute.  Why would we pack them up?

Me:  Well, if you go to college in a different city or state, you will have to move.

Silence......

Gman:  What college is in our town?  Because I like my room, and my stuff, and I think I just want to stay here.  Forever and ever.

Me:  Gman, college is a long way away, but there are a few around here if you wanted to stay at home.  This will be your room for as long as you want (what am I saying??)

Gman: Well, if I went away, would you just have new kids to stay in my room and use my stuff?  I guess that is okay, but they can't touch my Legos.

Me:  Oh heavens no, honey, your dad and I are done having kids.  But, your brothers will still be here.

Gman:  Yeah.  I guess they could use my stuff.  They can sleep in my room, on the top bunk even.

Me:  Well Gman, that's really sweet, but you know, Bman might be in college the same time you are at some point, so he might not want your Legos anyway.

Gman:  Wait a minute!  They are going to get bigger too?  MOM!  What are you going to do when there are no kids to live here??

I sat there and looked at him and said, I don't know.  Because I don't. 

The idea of not having a child to bathe, dress in dinosaur jammies or read a book to at night is unfathomable.  The thought of no more "midnight" talks with someone who tells me that his bus driver is actually a spy from another planet is just not an option I can consider.  I know there are several years left for blanket tents and hide-n-seek and happy meals and sidewalk chalk, but how many more years will I have of these whimsical and unpredictable bedtime chats?  I figure I've got a good 5 or 6 years left before my first born hits mute on the nightly gab fests, and maybe 10 years total when you combine my younger two, so if you do some math and multiply all that by 365 days in a year, I've got about 3,650 nights left where one of them can tell me another absolutely amazing, incredible story.  That's a lot of nights and a lot of stories, but I have a feeling it will fly right by.

Goodnight, midnight talkers.