The Five Minute Parental Countdown ticked to the end as the sun dipped behind the horizon.
“Okay guys, it’s time to go home,” I said, enjoying the lovely breeze.
“No. I want. Stay. Here.” Lil Diva’s words tumbled out, clear as can be.
“No, sweetie, our five minutes are up.” Regret filled my voice, because I didn’t want to leave either. I debated stretching bedtime. For a moment. But I knew better. “We have to go.”
“No! Want. Stay. HERE.”
I could see the inevitable meltdown forming, carrying her kicking and screaming.
I pulled out the trump card. “We have to go home so you can have a cupcake.”
She gave me a considering look. For about three seconds. “Okay.” She ran for the car.
We walked to the car as I marveled how much she sounds like a big girl.
A very stubborn one.
Not like anyone I know…
* * *
Words emerged from The Tackler’s mouth so terrifying, I dropped what I was doing and bolted to the bathroom.
“Mommy, I had a whole bunch of poop in the potty. And all the water didn’t go flushing down the toilet, because I had too much poop.”
To my amazement, no pool of disgusting water awaited on the floor.
My son simply required two flushes. At four and half years old.
He continued talking about it, bursting with pride at how prolific he was.
No wonder we had so many Poopapaloozas last year.
I shudder to think what the teen years will bring.
* * *
The Tackler complained his ear hurt, so we went to the doctor yesterday to have his ears checked.
For once, he did not have an ear infection.
“So buddy, is something bothering you?” the doctor asked.
“My uvula is broken. And my stomach hurts.”
“Really…?” the doctor looked at me, partly amused, partly concerned.
“My lungs don’t work. My intestines are sick. My leg hurts.”
The Tackler continued – a sad, sick expression on his face – naming every body part he could think of and describing an illness for each as the doctor continued with the exam.
“He really likes to study the human body,” I said.
The doctor left, nothing to prescribe and The Tackler looked at me. “But I haven’t told him about all of my ouchies.”
I smiled and ushered him out. “Well be back for your sister’s well check tomorrow. Go get your sticker.”
He bolted and I sent a prayer to the heavens.
Please don’t let me have a hypochondriac on my hands.
Or one who begs to see the doctor for attention and the possibility of yummy antibiotics.
Do your children ever “fake” sick to go to the doctor? Have you ever bribed them to avoid a meltdown?