This morning in the car, after the boys wailed bitterly about someone who didn't let someone have a turn, having to wear mittens, having to wear coats, having to go to school, and being reminded that it's a school day.
Jack: Mommy, do you like being a mother?
Me: (tensely) Yes. (suspiciously) Why?
Jack: Because sometimes it doesn't seem like you do.
Me: (determined not to take this personally like my mother used to be when I said stuff like that) I just don't like when my sons don't cooperate in the morning and act like it's a big surprise that they're going to school every day.
Jack: We don't go to school every day, just Monday to Friday! And not in the summer!
Me: (tensely again, while negotiating tricky turn) You know what I mean.
Jack: You want us to do what you want.
Me: Yes. Exactly.
Jack: (muttering) Like we're your slaves.
Me: (Nothing. I actually say nothing. Ta da. Turns on WXPN)
____________________________
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.-- M. F. K. Fisher
Posts
1 comment:
I commend you for your self-control at that last remark! I'm sure my 7-year old will start this sort of thing soon, and I don't look forward to it. Being the sarcastic, short-tempered person that I naturally am, it's already hard to keep my mouth shut.
Post a Comment