Unsettled

Bare

Maximilian James Hiddleston developed quickly, becoming a man of many talents. He excelled in the arts — no big surprise there — and had an ear for song and languages. But all those achievements came later.

His natural talent as a child lay in mischievousness. And tantrums. Oh the tantrums.The thing most memorable about the terrible twos were not the tantrums — however — but something that had occurred, the result of a tantrum of epic proportions:

An admission that opened the door for healing.

It's approaching midnight when you pause the movie, something unheard of — the result of too much wine. But it is your night to treat yourself, since Tom has Max, so you refuse to feel anything but contentment regarding drinking the rest of the bottle. Snuggling back down onto the sofa with your blanket you see the screen of your phone dimming before going black once more.

You've missed some sort of notification. Several, actually. All from Tom. The last of which reads:

>>Please pick up when I call. Please. Please.<<

And you've missed the phone call for being in the other room.

The pair of you don't call one another. You usually communicate by text, unless it is important. Mommy Mode immediately activates, regardless of the wine in your system. You don't bother listening to the message or the other few texts, you just dial his number and wait for him to answer. One ring. What could be wrong? Two. Did something happen? Three.

When Tom answers you don't have to ask, you hear the reason for the middle-of-the-night break in tradition. Max is crying, not just crying but screaming.

"Oh thank God." Tom sighs out. You can barely hear him over the wails of your son.

"Tom? What's going on?" You stand and sway on your feet a bit. You're in no condition to go anywhere. If Max is hurt you'll have to call a cab and meet them —

"He's in a mood. I've tried everything. He won't go to sleep."

Your panic abates. These aren't cries of pain — this is a full on tantrum. You'll be able to sink back down onto the couch in a moment, after your heart stops beating at such a pace. "Oh. Oh." You look at the clock again, double checking the time. "You're just trying to get him to sleep now?"

"No. We've been at it awhile." Tom's deadpan delivery is a clear indication he is annoyed by your question. Exhausted and annoyed. If he's been dealing with a tantrum of this level since Max's usual bedtime, it is no wonder.

"You tucked him in? Read The Book?" You press your free hand to your face, trying to think while dealing with the unusual mix of adrenaline spike and alcohol. If Tom had had a long day and tried to skip the book, it would certainly explain a tantrum.

A tantrum still going strong. Hard to stop a two year old once he gets started. Particularly this two year old. Tom's reply is almost lost in a long screeching wail, "Yes. Of course." Then, to Max he says, "I know Max. I know. Shhhhh."

Tucking a foot beneath you, you settle back onto the sofa. Oh the joys of parenting. "Well. He'll wear out eventually...." It's not really a useful suggestion. You feel a pang of guilt. The noise level hasn't lowered a notch since you answered. At least you have the benefit of holding the phone away from your ear. "Um, have you tried singing to him?"

"That's your thing." Tom points out.

Right. "Put me on speaker." You wait until you hear Tom's prompt and Max's wail seemingly increase in volume and then you start to sing: