Friday, July 30, 2010
Why I oughta...
My Mom came over on Sunday because she hadn't seen the boys in awhile. Like any Grandma worth their salt, she is notorious for spoiling my children. She often brings them candy, lets them eat it while I'm putting dinner on the table, and generally lets them get away with anything because she's the Grandma and its her right, dangit.
So Sunday night I made dinner, and like always, Nick was the last one at the table, dilly-dallying his way through his meal. Will had gone back outside to play, and my Mom had left the room as well.
Looking thoughtful, Nick tilted his head as he does when he's about to make profound comments and said, "Mom, I wish Grandma was my Mom."
"WHAT?!?" I pretend to be more surprised and outraged than I really was.
"Yeah. She's like, a better Mom and stuff." He chewed away at whatever piece of meat had been in his mouth for ten minutes already, swinging his feet as little boys are wont to do. "That would be cool."
"Well poop on you, Jobu!" I said, picking up the last of the dinner dishes and putting them in the sink.
"Well, she'd like, not make me sit here and finish my dinner." I surpressed a chuckle. He was probably right on that one.
"Fine. Whatever. Go tell Grandma. I don't need you, anyway. I've still got Will." I kept moving, wondering where this conversation was going to lead.
"Well, don't you love me, Mom? Don't you want me to not go live with Grandma?"
"Not if you're going to tell me I'm not a good Mom. Don't I let you do all kinds of cool stuff? Take you fun places and make sure you're always OK and not scared or hurt? I always FEED YOU, don't I?"
"Yeah," he said, holding his thumb and forefinger so close together that they were all but touching, "but Grandma's just THIS much better than you."
I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Oh really? So how do I get better? You know, beat her out?"
He stopped swinging his feet and sat up straight. "I dunno. I guess you just got to get prettier, or something."