I goad my son. I instigate. I rabble-rouse. I'll take a perfectly content child and make turn him into a raving lunatic.
Yesterday, he was reading a book to himself. Quite happily.
"Hey, Owen," I said.
"Hey Owen," I repeated.
"Not now, Mom. I'm too busy."
"Too busy for me to eat your feet?" I responded, grabbing a scrumptious little piggy.
"Noooooooooooooo! Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhh! No! Mommy! No!" he yelped.
"Oh, yes, it's piggy eating time!" my voice was lunatic-asylum cheery.
"No! Don't! Eat! My! Feet! That's enough!" Owen was laughing as he spoke, but it was a hysterical, could-turn-on-a-dime kind of laughter.
I gave his feet one final nibble, then reluctantly let them go.
"Go away, Mommy," he said, and returned to his book.
"Fine," I answered. I felt dismissed, swatted away like a horsefly. My mothering/roughhousing services were not needed at that moment.
This is truly the chickens coming home to roost. Anybody who has spent time with me knows that there are times that I'm reading or otherwise occupied, and I'm not in the mood for banter or nonsense of any sort. I need a lot of alone time, usually around the time that the significant people in my life wish to interact.
So, out of anybody in the world, you would think that I would understand and respect my son's need for downtime. I need time alone like I need coffee and oxygen.
Also, Lord knows there are many times that I would pay good money to have Owen silently, independently amuse himself.
That is, unless I feel like playing with him. Then, I want him to be right there with me.
Already, our paths are crossed. And, I suppose, since I'm the supposed adult, I'm the one who should adapt.
It's just so hard when those toes are so delicious.