The other night at dinner-prepping-flip-out time around our house I think I may have gritted my teeth. More than once. The oldest tried telling the others to give it a break. “Y’all, Mom’s going to be mad! Both kinds!” Oh, I’m crazy alright.
While at church the other morning I made the seven year old share the last bite of muffin with the eight year old. The older child took a huge bite leaving a tiny sliver for his younger brother. I shot the not-nice look to my oldest and let him know that was rotten. His daddy said, “Do you know what you would’ve done if he had done that to you? You would’ve fallen down right here on the ground in a fit.” To which that child replied, “I would not. This ground is way too hard for that.”
Last night while watching me settle the baby with his paci, the oldest observed, “Does the paci settle him like when he’s nursing.” I explained that yes, probably, that’s how it worked. With a far away look he mused, “Hmm, I kind of remember what having a paci feels like.” Silence, pause. “But I don’t think I remember what the bo.0b.y is like.”
Nice.
And, that ladies and gentleman, is why I am mad. Like the hatter.
