Posting over at Five Minute Friday.
The word for today:
My son is cross. He’s so cross he barely can walk, the crossness has traveled down from his brain to his legs, it seems.
As it goes, the cat is now cross, and I am considering crossness too, as I eye my firstborn over my second cup of coffee (microwaved three times).
We stare each other down, Clint Eastwood and That Other Dude, in that movie where Clint chews on his cigarette, and the scenery, and tells the Other Dude,
“Go ahead, punk. Make. My. Day.”
Only, both me and my son vie for the Clint roll in this little drama – we don’t want to be the Other Dude because we all know what happened to him.
My son will not put on his shoes. He cannot walk, you see, and it is just impossible, the shoes, the backpack, the hattttt, it’s all so harrrd.
I have now taken over as Clint because Clint is no whiner, and my son, well, is.
And I chew up the living room with my withering stare.
And the cat slowly backs out of the room. He knows what happens to the Other Dude. He is out of here.
“Son,” I glower with my Clinty best, “You are snotting all over your hoodie. Get. A. Kleenex.”
Other Dude/son stares at me for a moment, not realizing, I guess, how short his scene in this movie is going to be. He then says,
“I have tears. Dats why.”
I blink. I imagine Clint would blink too. His Other Guy just turned the script on him. I look at my son and really look.
“I hava tears. You hurt my feelings.”
“When? When did I hurt your feelings? I made you breakfast; you ate it, and now we’re trying to get ready for school?”
He looked down at his shoes and started putting them on. Snot and all.
“You were loud at me yesterday.”
I blink again. And then I remember. Yesterday, around four o’clock, my son wouldn’t take his medicine for the lingering bronchial cold he has. I lost my temper. I yelled at him. I did. The day had just come up and swatted me and I was so tired, so tired, of saying everything twice…
So, I yelled. And we all know how well that works.
My son fiddled with his shoes and then stood up, pulled on his hat. I stood before him. And then I said,
“I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”
He sighed. “I do, mommah.”
We hugged. I looked to the ceiling. My Lord, please help me.
My son notices a lot of things. With noticing comes remembering, it seems.
And I need to notice him. Even in the small moments, or the sour ones.
And I also need to give notice to Mom guilt and sadness today.
Because, Lamentations 3:22-23.