There's a Monster at the End of This Post!

What did that say? Did the title say what I think it did? There's a monster at the end of this post? Oh, please, do not read any further. I do not want to see the monster at the end of this blog! I, your friendly neighborhood father, son, brother, in-law, friend, teacher implore you not to read another word...

I've scarred my son. He's not even three and I think I've already set the stage for at least a couple years of expensive psychoanalysis.

Earlier this week while out to lunch with my parents, my son continued to slouch in his chair until he was almost completely under the table. In order to fight my fear of public displays of parental ineptitude, I created a monster who lives under the table and tickles little boys who don't sit up straight. It worked like a charm as my son sat bolt upright for the remainder of lunch. Harmless, right? He mentioned the 'monster' a few times afterwards, but it seemed like a joke.

Tonight, during his grandmother's birthday dinner, my son was getting a bit rowdy. Asking him politely to stop had no effect. I reached my leg under the table and pressed my foot against his leg. He didn't seem to notice. I continued. He still didn't notice. In fact he continued to act like a little wild rainforest boy who licked a frog he shouldn't have...the kid definitely missed his nap today.

Finally his eyes caught mine, I let a surprised, quizzical look cross my face, a look that said, "Oh! What could that be?" He smiled; a look that said "Silly daddy, what are you doing?" I tilted my head slightly and then panic set in. Sheer panic. Pure, childhood, stuff-of-nightmares, panic. My son's face twisted in ways I've never seen before. His body began to shake, his face went pale, he struggled to get out of his seat as quickly as possible for a child in the throes of a waking nightmare, all the while knowing that a monster was waiting for him as soon as he set foot on the floor. I dropped my food and pushed back from the table just as fast, scooped up my son and tried my best to console him; tried my best to take back the 'parenting' I'd done the past few days. He shook in my arms. He warned me that the monster was under the table. He ignored my apologies. He scoffed at my explanations that I had made up the monster and that it was only me touching his leg with my foot.

The rest of the dinner guests struggled to maintain composure behind their napkins. Tears of laughter mocked my tears of shame. I set my son down and showed him that it was only my foot. I tried to bring normality back to the table. I failed.

The monster now lurks beneath every table in every dining room. Its claws hold tight to my son's imagination. It eats dinner with us every night of the week and, while I can't eradicate this beast, the brownies and ice cream certainly keep him at bay...for now.

What was that? I am the monster at the end of this blog? Oh, dear...and you were so scared!