John, the napless wonder, has morphed into a wailing creature that sounds half-man and half-beast. He has brandished a croquet mallet and thrown a brick (a brick!) at someone. We are both at wit's end.
"Why are you acting like this," I ask.
"I don't know," he says looking bewildered.
His fit ends abruptly as he hears me begin to fake cry. He runs and wraps his squishy arms around me.
"Stop cwyingt, Mama," my little changeling pleads.
In the middle of this, Dave calls wondering if he can pick up anything for me. Last time I checked, Kroger wasn't stocking straight jackets or over-the-counter tranquilizers.
Forty-five minutes until bedtime.
2 comments:
Oh boy - you went THERE? I've heard of crying to get out of traffic tix (wish I had *that* skill set) but crying as a parenting technique? That's a new one. So long as it works, right?
This was more of a deep, heart felt groan that screamed "Woe is me!"
It worked! Twelve hours of sleep worked even better.
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