Pretty Momma

So, I apologize. I totally forgot today was Thursday. But here is an old story from 2003 when Younger would have been almost four years old…

On Friday, Elder and Younger spent the night with Grandpa and Grandma. At some point during his stay, Grandma suggested that Younger compliment his mother occasionally by telling me I was pretty. And Younger apparently thought she had revealed a method of manipulation.

Saturday, after repeatedly throwing an empty juice bottle around the back seat of the car during our trip to the soccer game, he was not allowed to watch cartoons until five o’clock. “Please,” he begged, sprawled on the kitchen floor, drenched in tears. “Please, give me one more chance.”

“Nope,” I replied, quite heartless.

“Please, please, please. One more chance. Please, Mommy.”

I studied him for a moment then shook my head. “Nope.”

So, he tilted his head to the side, his eyes still swimming in tears. “Mommy, you’re pretty.”

Oh-ohhh. Nice try. But, you know…the little bugger can’t read a clock. Four-thirty looks the same to him as five. And I am pretty. So…

I always was a sucker for a cute boy with a good line.


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