My Son Is Sensitive

Last night I was playing with the kids on the computer and stumbled upon a fun little game on Yahoo called "Red Ball 2." (Presumably there is a "Red Ball 1" somewhere out there.) It's a cute little game where you try to help a happy little red ball through a series of puzzles and adventures to try to find its missing crown. Evidently the red ball was pretty attached to its crown.
The ball was quite cute, with lots of endearing facial expressions, and the kids (sitting on my lap generally obstructing my view) were rather eager to assist in the little red ball's crown recovery exploits. They would shout directions to me ("Go left, Daddy!", "Down there, Daddy!", "No! Not that way!") and give me all kinds of unsolicited advice, and the more intense the gameplay got, the more they would crane forward and block the screen.



All was well until the levels got a bit more challenging and all of a sudden I started dying in more frequent and varied ways. When you fall off a cliff, for example, the poor little plummeting ball gives out a somewhat disturbing scream of terror. Then there were the sharp pointy things that popped the poor little guy, and soon we came to the green toxic waste baths that induced similar afflictions. The kids became visibly more agitated the more complicated and challenging the game got. L started to get fidgety and N began to suggest that maybe we'd played enough of the game. Finally, we got to one level where you have to levitate through a maze of pointy spikes and I was doing so so poorly that L was huddled with her face pressed into my shoulder and N was weeping openly, begging me to turn it off - so overwrought were they over the repeated traumatic demises of their beloved little red friend. It took N a good half-hour/45 minutes to calm down from his grief.

Later that night, when I put them to bed, the three of us rotated round-robin picking good-night songs to sing. (Stacy has usually given up on the kids by this point.) L went first and picked "Do, A Deer," which was met with hearty approval by N. I went second. ("Greensleeves," since I think all children should be sung to sleep with 16^th century English ballads). The participation was commendable. Then it was N's turn, and he picked one of my favorites, "You Are My Sunshine." (Or simply "Sunshine" as it's known in our house.) Things started well.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are grey,

N sang along bracingly.

You'll never know, dear, how much I love you

N's volume had diminished noticeably.

So please don't take my sunshine away.

I couldn't hear N at all any more. I plunged regardless into the second verse:

The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping,
I dreamt I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken,
So I hung my head and I cried.

You are my sunshine...

And that's when I noticed the sobbing. I was lying in N's bed with him as we sang and looked down to find him cuddled up against me weeping in abject pain and suffering.

"N, what's wrong?" I asked. He didn't answer immediately but let his broken heart have its way for a period. When he finally calmed down he was able to choke out an answer.

"That song is too sad," he said.