Minding My Manners

Children are extremely clever. They have this uncanny ability to take what you’ve taught them and apply it right back at you. AND, their timing is so impeccable that when they use said teaching against you, you can’t rebuttal because they catch you right in the act of committing the crime. This leaves you at once proud of them for learning the principle so well that they can teach it, and annoyed at their ability to reverse the parent and child roles to discipline you at your own misbehavior. My Smarty-Pants King A happened to pull a check-mate on me.

It was early morning, and I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off to get both King A and Lord R ready for daycare. To save time, I instructed King A to potty on his own accord. Meanwhile, I chased down a half-naked Lord R who has managed to escape my clutches after a diaper change to crawl from the bathroom, through the hallway, and ending in King A’s bedroom, where he was entertained by a plethora of toys on the floor.

From a short distance away, I could hear King A holler, “I’m done, Mommy.”

“Have you pottied?” I asked.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“Good job, Sweetie! Now wash your hands,” I reminded him without laying eyes on him. Moments later, I heard the rubber base of the stepping stool skid along the bathroom floor's tile as he pushed it from the toilet to the sink, followed by the sounds of the faucet water turning on. Still keeping an eye on a playful Lord R, I opened King A's drawers to pull out a Wall-E underwear.

"Come get your underwear when you're done washing your hands," I said.

A half-naked King A stepped out of the bathroom into the adjoining hallway and paused. I'm standing at the other end of the hallway just outside the his bedroom door with Wall-E in hand. He reached his hands out to accept the underwear I'm holding, but I realized that the distance was too vast for the lengths of our arms to meet. Rather than closing the distance with a few extra steps, I decided to throw his underwear to him. He wasn’t prepared to catch it, so it landed on the ground a foot away from his feet. I could see his eyes following the trajectory of the underwear; his head lowered to where Wall-E had landed and then it raised again to look at me. When our eyes met, he said, “Mooommmmmmyyyy?!” He spoke with a slightly high-pitched inflection on the second syllable, and filled with implications of I-can’t-believe-you-just-did-that.

“Oh sorry! Just pick it up.”

“But, you’re suppose to hand it to me," he said indignantly.

Weighing the options of debating with him or just picking up the underwear, I decided that the latter option would be faster. I stepped two paces, reached down to pick up Wall-E and placed it in his outstretched hand.

“See, isn’t that better?” he praised and reprimanded me, simultaneously. I rolled my eyes. “Thank you, Mommy. I love you."

Cute? Check. Brat? Double check. It is my own fault (and source of motherly pride) for instilling in him the virtues of respectfully handing objects to others. Now, if only I can also get away with teaching him: Do as I say; not as I do. (Wink)