Last weekend, I spent three nights in the country with my six-year-old boy, Beaux (usually written “Bx” for short, since his name in sign language, as given to him by his grandpa, is a “B” and an “X” signed in quick succession). We arrived after dark and the coyotes were out, but I figured Bx was prepared for them. Well, at least for the lonely and sometimes haunting sound of them.
Living in the city, we don’t hear much from the coyotes. We also don’t see much of the stars that are beyond the reach of our glowing street lamps, either, so it’s always especially hair-raising to arrive at night. The darkness is absolute, but for the twinkling of a million stars, and the coyotes seem to pace just outside of the yellow circle of light provided by the single bulb above the shed.
As we unloaded the car, I heard Bx’s voice coming from the direction of my right elbow, “Mama?” and I was tired and cranky and my hands were full, so I just said, “Huh?”
“Mama?” he said again, and this time his breath was warm in my belly button. He’d worked his body into the tiny space between my gestating self and the now-empty car trunk.
“HUH,” I said, with a little force. More effort than that would have required the use of consonants, and I was just too tired for that nonsense. Aside from that, I still had to shut the trunk. Sheesh.
“Mama-“
“Whadyawant?” I interrupted.
“-will you show me a picture of a coyote?” he asked, and his voice was small and shaky, and I realized he’d just been too scared to formulate his thoughts quickly, like I’d been too tired to put my tongue to the roof of my mouth to form a coherent response.
I sighed with exasperation, more at myself and my own impatience than at his hesitant curiosity. “Oh, honey, of course I will. But, you know, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“There’s not?” he asked, his voice just a little louder than the disembodied howls and yips coming to us from the darkness, which must’ve made the coyotes seem larger than life and innumerable.
“Nope, not at all,” I stated firmly.
Well, when we were finally in our designated bed for the night, I Googled “coyote” on my iPhone (they FINALLY have service out there).
Those handy, dandy iPhones. Always thinking they’re so smart.
The first picture wasn’t so bad. The second one was alright. The third, however, was a picture of a coyote taking down a huge sheep in broad daylight. A sheep easily larger than the boy tucked securely into my armpit.
“We’ll just skip that one,” I said, and turned from the snapping jaws and dripping teeth to a picture of a coyote that had hopped onto a Portland light-rail train and was looking all cuddly for the commute. “That’s really how they look in real life. Isn’t that sweet?” I asked. And on that note, “Now, go to sleep.”
A few minutes later, when Bx said he was having a tough time going to sleep because of the coyotes, I snuggled him a little closer to me instead of suggesting he count sheep. Thataway, I wouldn’t have to account for a decline in their population should he run out of sheep before falling asleep.
