January 08, 2014
I write about my children on the Internet. This is terrible. Thus, I feel it is only fair to occasionally write about the other things I do to my children that are terrible. This is one of those entries.
Ezra asked if he could play with the iPad. I told him not right now, please put away the Play-Doh first, as there were currently twenty-goddamn-four cans' worth of Play-Doh all over my kitchen counter.
Ezra argued that the random Play-Doh lumps and glumps were all very imporant "food things" that he created for our "dinner" and "dessert." But not today's dinner and dessert, tomorrow's dinner and dessert, because it needed to "dry out." Then we could eat it. If I made him clean it up, we'd starve. Also, he'd be mad. At me.
I repeated my request that he clean up the mess first, adding my objection to intentionally ruining our entire supply of Play-Doh.
He responded by glaring the glariest, darkest glare his cherubic face could manage before storming over to our chalkboard wall. He picked up a piece of chalk and scribbled something out with great purpose.
"THAT'S MY HEART," he announced, before adding one final flourish. "AND THAT'S A CRACK IN IT."
"And the crack is ALL YOUR FAULT."
He threw down the chalk and ran out of the room, then thought better of it and came back to put the chalk back in its proper place before stomping off again.
A few minutes later he returned, this time with a proposal. He would clean up the Play-Doh first, then he'd put away some Legos and the Angry Birds set, and then he'd get to play with the iPad. Okay?
I pretended to consider this deal very carefully before agreeing.
"Hooray!" Ezra shouted, throwing himself at my legs and hugging them tight. "Now my heart isn't cracked anymore! You glued it back together!"
(We left the drawing on the chalkboard wall, though, as a reminder: There's no stronger heart-glue than a mother's love. A mother's terrible, manipulative, sneaky-as-hell love.)