Fiddler on the Roof

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I defy any mom to say "no" to that sad face.

“He plays you like a fiddle,” taunts Paul.

“I know. I know! I just can’t help it. He’s just so adorable and charming, and he sings with me, and his eyes get so big when he’s sad, I just can’t stand to hear him cry.”

Everyday I say I’ll get tough, but when the sun sets and we cuddle up in the rocking chair and he sings along with me in that sweet soprano voice, I turn to putty in Dean’s soft little hands. I wake up every morning literally relieved the paparazzi haven’t found us out yet. We have the most darling baby in the world and we’ve somehow managed to preserve his anonymity, thank goodness.

After I lay him down in his crib, he says, “Stay Mom! Lay down! Stay!” So I stay. I lie down on the floor and sing until I think he’s asleep and then try to crawl away as mutely as I can. But sure enough, after 5 minutes I’ll hear,

“Mom! Where’s Mom?” And if I don’t respond, he turns to his bunk mate, Andy.

“Andy! Get Mom! Get Mom! Get Mommmmm!!!”

And so as not to upset the sleeping schedule of my growing 8 year old, I come back in, lie down, and wait for the verbose angel to fall asleep. Again. This can go on for more rounds than I care to admit.

That’s when I finally stagger in to my own bedroom, flop down and hear,

“He plays you like a fiddle.”

“I know. I know…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…”

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