30 verys

Poor Eliot. I think we wrapped things up on an okay note, if the squeeze he gave my neck is any indication. Minutes earlier, though, bedtime looked more like wartime. It was my fault. I take full responsibility. I’ve already apologized, and he’s already forgiven me. Fortunately.

Because he was VERY VERY VERY MAD at me. He crawled far across his bed, away from me. “I’m never going to listen to you again!”

And it really was my fault. My throat hurts. I’m very tired. I just wanted to tuck everyone in and carry on with my evening, which HAS to include the completion of at least one Angry Bird costume, if not both of them. So, we finished our story-reading (Birdie already made because I told her I was reading the book she wanted to read), and I flipped off the light in the middle of Eliot reeling off the colors on the cover of the same book. Maybe I should blame Dr. Suess and his book, right? But, really, credit is all me. I turned off the light, turned on the cd, and took the book. Eliot was mad, and fairly, but then he punched me as we all snuggled in Bird’s bed. And we don’t do punching.

“If you punch me again, you will have to go to your own bed.”

Five seconds later, the polar bear punched me. “Using a tool to do your hitting is still hitting. Go.” I unceremoniously dumped him in his bed, returned to Birdie, snuggled her for the two songs we snuggle, and went back to his room, where his sorrow remained in full force. I told him how sorry I was, how I knew I was wrong.

“You were being mean to me. That’s why I hit you!”

“Do you hit your friend at school when he does something you don’t like?”

No. Apparently, everyone in the entire world does what Eliot wants. Except me.

I lost count the other day, as he hollered at me from the back seat, but I’m pretty sure he prefaced “mad” with thirty “very”s. That’s pretty mad.

I’m not sure how we’ll find our way out of this not getting your way means people (ME) are mean phase, but I’m sure it will come along eventually. In the meantime, I’ll keep apologizing when I am actually officially wrong. And I’ll keep hugging a teary boy.


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