Aliens roost under Little Bro’s bed at night.
I may be obsessed with chickens lately, but I say roost because these aliens seem to have deflocked by morning, when the sun is up and Little Bro can turn out his lights.
Which are on all night long. Desk light. Overhead light. Night-light.
Aliens don’t like light evidently…or not these roosting ones, that materialize only to stick Little Bro’s toes with pins, and if he falls asleep (which he hasn’t done “in five thousand years”) to drill more “belly buttons” into his stomach.
Some have cow teats (and udders) on their shoulders and sing Gangnam Style:
…and have long tails:
Or if no tails, enormous feet with three toes, and they burp:
With big eyes, they can be reminiscent of a rather pudgy Mo Willem’s pigeon who as well, refuses to go to sleep in Don’t Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late:
I had Little Bro draw these pictures of his roosting aliens one night in the hope of exorcising them, as the nightly there-are-aliens-under-my bed routine was getting old. (Especially as our electric bills were mounting.)
The cow teats were most likely inspired by a dinner table conversation that same night, as I had set in front of each of my boys a glass of milk.
Since they were weaned, both Big and Little Bro have refused to touch the stuff. I’ve been reduced to trying to meet normal calcium intakes via cheese sticks and icecream, and it was time to make a milk stand.
They crinkled their noses. “Gross.”
I tried scare tactics. That they would stay small forever, with tiny little bones.
“I don’t care,” Little Bro said. “It’s cow pee.”
“What else is it? Cows pee milk out their pee-pees.”
Sometimes I wonder if they’re starting to doubt other fantasticals, like Santa or the Easter bunny, but if cows can pee milk, then maybe….not.
Without having to go into too much graphic detail, I tried to explain about cow udders. Until I Googled udders, and realized what I meant to be talking about are teats.
Which not only can be used to milk cows evidently, but also aliens.
When Little Bro had finished drawing his aliens, I folded up the paper, and putting it in my pocket, said the aliens would be saying goodnight and leaving the room with me.
Little Bro grabbed his blankie, curled into a fetus position, and I doubted how convincing this little exorcism had been.
Especially since he still wouldn’t turn out the lights.
And twenty minutes later he was coming down the stairs because he heard something under his bed.
“Did you check?” I asked.
“Of course I checked. That doesn’t mean anything…”
Of course it doesn’t. Aliens can be invisible. That’s the problem with aliens. They can be anything you want them to be. Besides donning cow udders on their shoulders and burping, they can pass through walls; they can have long arms to reach down from the moon to snatch you; they can drill belly button holes. It’s therefore particularly hard to dispute their existence.
Especially since at some point Little Bro on one of our library excursions had visited the alien children’s section. Which evidently has children’s books on aliens that aren’t so fantastical as fairy tales.
“There were pictures. Real ones.”
How did I miss these alien books?
Easy. Little Bro is famous for losing himself wherever we go. Restaurants. Parks. Libraries. So I’m the yelling mom between stacks looking for Lost Child sneaking peeks at actual photographs no doubt of UFO spottings and shadowy amorphous images of aliens.
I could perhaps take the exorcism further and burn the drawings in the fireplace. But aliens seem to be invincible.
So the alien talks may just have to remain as much a part of Little Bro’s bedtime routine as picking his nose (yes, that seems harder to outgrow than thumb sucking) for some time to come. But I admit. Although I have no answers, I’m far more comfortable with alien talks, than I am with ones about lactation that may then lead to the birds and horny little bees.