A battle of wills and lizards

After a weekend of sun and swim, last night my 6-year-old, Sydney, succumbed to an overwhelming case of exhaustion: crocodile tears over small issues, accompanied by the ardent wailing, “I’m not tired!” at the merest suggestion otherwise.

Naturally I reached into my mommy arsenal and pulled out the trump card for curing exhaustion: what she needed was a good snuggle on the couch. I rubbed her back and tried to dry her tears, but my cure-all was slow to work its magic. Her wailing persisted.

We were in for desperate measures.

Cue older brother Harry. It pains the 13-year-old to see his baby sister cry, ever, and said wailing compelled him to reach into his own, handcrafted Big Brother Arsenal to cheer her up.

That smart boy trumped me reptile style.

“Sydney! Come see what I caught!”

Curiosity quickly got the better of the tears as the 6-year-old followed her brother to the front yard. There, in phosphorescent glow of the streetlamp, Harry unveiled a blue-bellied lizard.

It was about 5-inches long; its mottled skin was beautiful. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d seen a lizard up close and personal. He was very friendly. We named him “Stan.”

Sydney was tentative yet fascinated. Her big brother described how soft it was and how safe Stan was and showed off every one the lizard’s extra-fine features. And believe me, the salesmanship of that 13-year-old could make just about anything on that little creature shine through as extra-fine. Sydney was highly interested. And completely amazed. And absolutely unwilling to touch it.

The gauntlet was down.

My second most stubborn child was determined to change the mind of my MOST stubborn child.

Nodding suggestively and smiling broadly, Harry proceeded to follow Sydney across the front yard, using all his wiles of manipulation to encourage his baby sister to touch the lizard. “Just feel it. C’mon, just a light finger touch. Look at how gentle it is, Sydney. See how it sits calmly in my hand? Look at its blue belly and its tiny eyes. It is very, very smooth.”

As Sydney took a step closer, Harry began working his charms in earnest. Stan was soft. Stan was docile. Just extend one finger, just one light touch. While Sydney and I looked at the reptile resting on his finger, Harry applied his best talking-to-a-child voice, pointing out how Stan’s tail had fallen off and grown back (Syd was just telling us how she’d learned about that in school) and pointed out Stan’s variegated markings.

With the skill of a used-car salesman, Harry carefully focused on what he perceived to be Syd’s fears—or rather, how they were moot. “I’m holding it, Sydney. I’ll keep you safe.” She looked at him nervously. “I promise,” he said.

This swayed her.

Syd first looked at me, then over at Stan resting on her brother’s index finger, half asleep. Harry pet Stan. I pet Stan. Syd raised a finger.

We paused.

…and in that pause and with the speed of a cheetah, Stan the speed-demon lizard sprung off Harry’s hand and dove straight onto Sydney’s face.

“WAAAHAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

That stupid lizard couldn’t have chosen a more strategic place to go. Syd screamed, I screeched, Harry shouted, and Syd swatted at her face and hair but Stan was already scurrying across the porch. Harry scrambled after the lizard as I hugged a wailing Syd. She then ran into the house.

When she turned to me, I saw that her tears had turned into peals of hysterical laughter. We were all so shocked and stunned that we proceeded to laugh for the next ten minutes. A comic routine ensued, with the 6-year-old declaring in her best adult voice, “OHmygawd, OHMYgawd, no way, no WAAAAYYY, keep that thing AWAY from me!”

Lizard be damned: Good, hard, over-tired belly laughs are so much nicer than the wails of exhaustion.