Mean Mother

My youngest son and I stand at the kitchen sink while dinner simmers on the stove. I am washing dishes by hand and from the rinse side he washes them again and rinses them about 12 times each. I keep turning the water down to a slow trickle. He turns it back up. I weigh my need to be environmentally responible against my need for him to stop whining about wanting more water.

He's helping me with the dishes because I refused to turn the television on for him. It's late in the afternoon, verging on evening and I know within a little while his dad will want to watch the news. For some reason, what I think is the acceptable alternative (watching TV in my bedroom) is not acceptable to him and so, instead, he stands next to me at the sink and explains my shortcomings.

"I wish you weren't so mean, Mommy."

"Really? You think I'm mean?"

He nods and makes lazy swirls with a scrub brush on an already-clean plate. "Yes, because you won't let me watch TV."

"I'm making you a nice dinner. Is that mean?"

He shrugs. "But I'd rather watch TV than eat dinner."

"Well, I know, but dinner will make you grow big and strong and you were the one telling me you wanted to be really, really super big and strong. So, I'm actually doing you a favor. You can just tell me thank you instead of telling me I'm being mean."

He's not fooled by my powers of reason. "I'm pretty strong already."

"That's true," I agree.

"Do you want to feel my muscles?"  He holds up his arm to show me his bicep. Water and soap suds run down his arm.

I wipe him down with a dishtowel and thoroughly inspect the arm he's offered me. "Very nice. Very strong."

"You're strong, too, Mommy."

We go back to scrubbing dishes in silence, our biceps flexing strongly.

New Cousin

I heard the news on Facebook where all news seems to come from these days -- a new baby has been born to our family.  She is a little girl born to our niece, the second baby in that family.  We've not seen either baby in person as they are on the other end of the continent from us, but we have been watching the oldest one grow, also via Facebook.

I clicked on the picture that was posted and started yelling for the family to come see.  They all came running to see the newest baby girl, so adorable and pink and chubby-cheeked.

Tristan started whining immediately.  "I WANTED BABY ISAIAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

"No, this is cool, Tristan," I was quick to reassure him. "This is cool because this is a NEW baby cousin, like an extra one.  So you can have Baby Isaiah AND now you can have this new cousin Holly."

"Is she ours?" His voice was hopeful.

"No, but she is in our family.  This is cousin Avery's little sister."

"I want her to live with us for ever and ever and EVER."  He stomped off to finish his dinner.

Moments later he asked from the far end of the room, "Who laid that baby??"

Apparently, I have a bit of explaining to do.

Mad Skillz with Women (or at Least CYA)

In the kitchen, my youngest son, four, stands with his back against the stove and his arms stretched across the stove door handle. He leans back and gives me a good looking-over.

"You used to be SOOOO pretty. But now you're not."

I stop what I'm doing, which is slaving over a hot sink of dishes -- or something.  Some tedious chore or other thing that improves my child's life.

I raise my eyebrows at him and say, "I'm not pretty anymore?  That's really not a very nice thing to say."

He thinks about it for a split-second and then adds, "Well, without your make-up, I mean."

Excellent save, my child.