As I wrote about the relationship between management practices, creativity, and innovation, Ben began to cry for me.
"Day," he inquired. ("Day" is a combination of Daddy and Jay... the two names by which I am commonly known.)
To Ben's chagrin, Day did not respond. As such, the youngster continued his lamentation.
"Day, come here" quickly turned into "Day, come here, please." When his attempts to woo me with pleasantries failed, he turned to other methods.
"Day, come here right now!"
I chuckled a bit, but with each new cry, I noticed how the word "Day" sounded more and more like the word "Die." Indeed... I could sense that something diabolical was in the works.
Ben continued to cry, and each new attempt to draw me into his room was met with stone cold opposition.
Here's how I see it: When it's bedtime, it's bedtime. Structure, order, and consistency are the pillars upon which something very noble is perched. I am a stern father, but I am not heartless. Ben knew my weakness... and he exploited it.
"Day... I poopy!" he called... repeatedly.
Having no desire to subject my child to a sleepless night in a desecrated dipe, I charged into his room to remedy the situation.
As soon as I entered his abode, the shouting turned from "Day, I poopy" to "Day, watch Diego."
I smelled something rotten, but the scent did not originate within the polka-dotted, Target-brand, size 5 diaper.
Indeed... When I examined the contents of the diaper, I found something much more sinister.
Lies... That's what I found, folks. Lies...
As I re-applied the sticky tabs of Ben's unused diaper, the look on his face seemed to say, "Oh, sorry, Day... My mistake. I guess I wasn't poopy after all. Perhaps we should watch Deigo together for a few moments before retiring for the evening."
Although I maintained a stoic facial expression as I returned Ben to his sleeping quarters, a chuckle escaped my lips as I called Jessica to tell her what "her son" just did.
