Thursday, July 29
Battle of wills
Yesterday evening Ethan endured two time outs and a five-minute standoff in the kitchen because he refused to throw away the wet diaper he took off and dropped in front of the trash can.
His new favorite phrase—one he loves even more than the bewildering and oft-used "My Sunday"— is "You do it."
I will not acquiesce. Because I have a feeling this kind of thing is the seminal incident that leads mothers to wash, fold and put away their sons' laundry far longer into their lives than in necessary, or appropriate.
Meanwhile, most of my conversations these days go like this:
"You do it."
"No, you do it."
"Nuffin, Mommy!" (shoulder shrug)
"Ethan. You do it."
"Okay then, time out."