As we walked to our car after daycare, we were holding hands and Nathan was doing that kid thing where he swings my arm wildly. He accidentally brushed his own face with his own hand and all hell broke loose. He dropped my hand and stomped his feet. He began to cry and scream, "You punched me in the face!" in the parking lot. Did I mention that I pick my kid up around 5ish, just like half the other working parents in the world? Through gritted teeth and my angry smile I urged him to get in the car. Quickly.
I started to drive away and he then switched to screaming that he's sorry, he doesn't know why I'm ignoring him and that he loves me. Oh, and that he needed to hug me right then and why wouldn't I hug him. Didn't I love him?
He's been a master manipulator for a long time. I can't help thinking the hug thing and the love thing are part of his diabolical plot to drive me insane.
By the time we got home, he had calmed, apologized for real and things were fine. He wanted to watch videos on You Tube (please don't ask me why I started this) and we sat together watching stuff and laughing. I'll let it slide that he wasn't interested in Animaniacs or Freakazoid.
But then it was dinner time. I served up our daily menu of French toast, grapes and yogurt, just like he asked for and was promptly told how terrible it was. He said, and I quote here:
You ruined my dinner on purpose because you are SO MEAN!
Yes, that's right. I ruin dinners on purpose. Because I'm mean. Because mean moms make their kids what they want for dinner and then love to get yelled at by irrational children. This is, in fact, my goal in life. In his defense, the French toast did come out weird. But did he really have to give that Oscar worthy performance over it? I think not.
After that meltdown subsided, we went back to happy child time. Until it was time for bed. Lest you think I really am a mean person, I did the requisite warnings of 10 minutes to bed, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 OK go upstairs and get your jams on please! To which this child, my pride and joy, threw himself on the floor and told me he was so tired he couldn't even walk anymore. He again reminded me that I'm mean and expressed displeasure with the fact that I make him do everything while I do nothing.
Again with this mean stuff. And making him do everything? Like walk up the stairs? Was I supposed to do that for him? Please. He is an only child and I am a pushover. He barely has to do anything. I'd make my standard joke I use on adults that next he'll ask me to wipe his ass for him but he does and then I do.
He finally got up and went upstairs to prepare for bed. We played SpongeBob Yahtzee, we watched birds for a few minutes and then we hugged, kissed, snuggled and I tucked him in. He asked for water. He complained his room was too cold and he needed his blanket. Then he was too hot. Then he needed more water. I gave him a stern warning that it was getting later and Mommy was about done with this nonsense and guess what he told me?
Yup, I'm mean. For wanting him to go to bed and for the love of all that is good stop whining and crying over every single thing. For wanting him to stop making all of his angry bird stuffies sing at the top of their lungs. For not wanting to show him a picture of a scoop of blueberry ice cream on my iPhone after I already agreed to show him a picture of a cicada.
He finally went to sleep and I sighed a deep sigh of relief. The next morning at 5:20, he woke and called out to me. I gently told him it was too early and to go back to sleep. He told me to stay with him and I said that everyone needed to be in their own beds still. As matter-of-factly as he could have he replied, "If you don't stay with me, you're mean."
I went back to bed.
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