On Sunday, we took advantage of the warm weather to give our two dogs a bath — a task dreaded by all of us, perhaps most especially the dogs. And we chose to wash Dusty first, as she is the fastest and was already warily eyeing the hose being dragged from the basement. Then, as I finished rinsing the soap from her fur, ignoring the indignation in her glare, I sent Younger into the house to retrieve the as-yet-oblivious George.
And as I glanced up to see him trudging towards the house in his socks, I added, “And don’t you leave footprints across my wood floor!”
“But Mom,”he objected, barely glancing at me as he turned towards the garage, “then how will Scooby Doo find me?”
I frowned at him. Until he disappeared into the shaded interior of the house.
Then I dipped my head and grinned. I might have even laughed.
But I can’t really let him know he entertains me.
I already have sufficient supply of snarkiness from that meddling kid.
The other day, in our local grocery store, as Younger reluctantly held the vase of Hershey’s Kisses topped with a balloon that I had bought for his father, he appeared both mortified by and resigned to a moment of less than manly appearance.
He was not always quite so dignified. And I have a story from 2004 when he was four years old to prove it . . .
Leaning an elbow on the arm of the sofa and crossing one foot across the other, Younger asked, “Do I look tough?”
“Absolutely,” I responded immediately.
He cocked his head to the side. “Why?”
Well, it was the “Blue’s Clues” house shoes that did it for me.
Today, I thought I would share a story from 2001 when Elder would have been five years old . . .
The other day, I wasn’t feeling particularly well. So, I camped out on the sofa with a blanket, a book and the TV remote. Now, I never watch real television. Usually, I concede to the boys when they want to watch cartoons or to my husband when he wants to channel surf. So, even as ill as I was, I had to stamp out the little insurrection that erupted when I turned the channel to Law and Order, otherwise titled “Mommy’s Show.”
I overruled Elder and Scooby Doo with relative ease. Then Steve sank onto the sofa beside me and mentioned with a woebegone look, “I wanted to watch S-I-M-P-S-O-N-S.”
My mouth tightening with frustration, I told him, “You’re as bad as Elder.”
Elder, who had been sitting between us, heard our exchange, his head popping up. “I am not either as bad as my Daddy.”
After a moment’s thought, I conceded the point to Elder. After all, it had been quite an insult to my five-year-old.