Nor custom stale
Rough morning. Charlie's rocking and rolling, objecting to everything, construing even the mildest guiding word as a slur against his honouuuur. After sixty or seventy gentle remonstrances, quiet redirections, and calm changes of subject, I'm starting to lose my cool. I finally fling away my patience with both hands and tell him to go, just gooooooooooo. GO get in the CAR before I go all cannibal hamster and eat my tender pink young.
His parting salvo is "Ben never has to get sent anywhere when he's behaving badly!"
The door slams and Ben runs over to it. Ben, you see, is helpful.
He opens it, leans out, and calls after Charlie, "I did! I got sent to my room yesterday! When I said that mean thing to you!"
And repeats that mean thing once more. Ben, you see, is helpful.
And I say to Paul, ignoring Charlie's sputters audible from the garage, "You know how some people look in despair at their lives and ask, 'When did I turn into my mother?' I'd love to be like my mother." My mom was in every way better than this.
Ben, behind me on the stairs, struggling into his snow pants, says, "If you want to be like your mom, just buy some fake wrinkly skin."
And typing this now, I have to laugh. Not only am I not momming right, I'm not even momblogging right. If I were, "fake wrinkly skin" above would have an affiliate link.