Illustration: Erin McPhee
It was supposed to slow him down. But the nightly ritual of reading Harry Potter I hoped would transition my six-year-old to bed clearly was not working. Felix was not snuggled in the crook of my arm. He was, in fact, mooning me. ?Pull up your pants,? I grumble between Quidditch plays. Out come the threats: If you don?t stop wriggling, poking or jumping and start listening, I?ll stop reading. ?What is Hermione?s cat?s name"? I yell as he burrows under the blanket. ?Crookshanks,? comes the muffled reply.
Too easy. Fed up, I snap the book shut while he rolls himself up in the duvet, pretending to be a sandworm. His head pops up, motionless for a split second, and he begs for ?one more page?please, please, please.? I demand a summary of what we?ve just read, and he rhymes off the potion ingredients Harry has messed up with superfan accuracy. Grudgingly, I turn to the next page while he ducks back under the covers. At least one of us is tired. For Felix, moving and thinking go hand in hand. As do moving and eating, and moving and listening. The only time he isn?t in motion?bouncing, bounding or rebounding?is when he?s strapped in by a seat belt or watching Star Wars. Even the most fleeting cuddles have resulted in fingers in the eye, elbows to the ribs and, sadly for my husband, many, many hits to the groin. At every meal, he sits halfway off the chair with one foot on the floor?ready to take off with any provocation (the cat walks by, he needs ...