Lego My Milk

This week, The Roc and I took a road trip to visit his Uncle Dave and Auntie Anna. Their house has a balcony, a staircase, a large, excitable dog, and an unfenced train track in the vicinity, among other toddler death traps. But it also happens to be mere minutes from Legoland, which puts it at the top of The Roc's must-see list.

Legoland is the paradise of toddlers, the purgatory of their parents, and the hell of any other adult unfortunate enough to get dragged along for the ride, as Uncle Dave can now attest.

"I just don't have any patience for kids who run wild and whine and misbehave," Uncle Dave admitted as we left. "Especially at Legoland. In some parts of the world, they'd be working in salt mines."

"Don't worry, when you have your own kids, you'll feel exactly the same," I assured him.

As if Legoland itself was not exhausting enough, I had to share the guest futon with The Roc, who is used to sleeping in a crib with four padded walls where he can bounce around like a somnambulant pinball all night. On several occasions, I awoke to the rhythmic sound of tiny, footsie-pajama-clad feet kicking me in my face, my stomach, the small of my back. Once, I heard a rumbling noise coming from somewhere under the futon; it was The Roc, who was snoring with his legs on the mattress and his torso hanging upside-down over the side.

In the middle of the night, The Roc woke me up for the 67th time and whispered in his scariest Gollum voice: "I want milk. I want milk. I want milk"

Trying not to wake the dog, I tiptoed to the kitchen and returned a minute later with a nice, cold glass of milk. The Roc grabbed it but stubbornly remained in a supine position.

"Sit up, Sugarplum," I told him, holding on to the glass.

Wrong thing to say to a thirsty, half-asleep two-year-old.

"I NEEEEEEEED IT!" The Roc screamed, loud enough to drown out the roar of the freight train passing in the night.