I just put Owen back to bed for his nap. He was doing his usual bull-in-a-china-shop routine in the bathroom, a long, elaborate, stalling ritual. He'll expel the poo-poo saved precisely for this purpose, after removing every stitch of clothing. He'll put copious amounts of hand sanitizer all over his upper torso, and then decide to do a jig in the bathtub.
I'll go upstairs, my face an angry line, and every day, he'll say the same thing: "Hi Mommy. Please don't be mad." He says this because it makes me feel like Mommy Dearest, all crazed eyes, cold cream and a wire hanger beating stick. Yes, he's that good. He has learned how to reduce his mother to a guilty heap before entering preschool.
Today, deciding to do the extended stall, Owen declared that he must wear pajamas to take his nap. He wanted to wear doggy pajamas with feet, to be precise. And only those. All other pajamas might as well have been covered with feces, in his mind. I wasn't going to have this fight, so we put them on.
Owen's body was a question mark, for the fabric was so snug that he couldn't stand straight. The sleeves ended around his elbows. A quick glance at the tag confirmed my suspicions, "Honey, you're wearing Joel's pajamas."
Owen eyed me suspiciously, and said, "Well, I like them. Don't take them off, Mommy."
"But honey, you can't stand up." I could easily see him splitting the seam, like those world-class swimmers in their ultra-tight racing suits.
"I like them," he repeated. "No, Mommy, no." He shook his finger at me as he backed away slowly, towards his bed. As if I would tackle him or something.
"Okay, then. Go to sleep. Now."
"Don't be mad, Miss Mommy. Goodnight!" He calls me "Miss Mommy" because I told him he was not allowed to call me Miss Nancy, like his friends. This is our compromise. Or, perhaps he calls me by a formal title because he lives in such fear of my wrath.
Based on the way I'm twisted around his finger, I'm guessing not.
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