Monday, July 20, 2009

Sometimes I wish there was an off button

It's after swimming and I ask Lucas, "so, you want to go to Old MacDonalds now?" (which is what he calls the golden arches).
"No," he says.
"Okay," I say, towelling off his hair and then mine, "we'll go to Wendy's."
Then, at the top of his lungs, "I DON'T WANT WENDY'S!"
"Okay," I say, busying myself with finding my jewellry to put back on.
"Mommy, I don't want Wendy's! I want Old MacDonalds!" I am now conscious of the people around us and the fact that he sounds like the biggest brat on the planet.
"That's fine, honey," I say, cheerily.
"I don't want Wendy's. I don't want Wendy's. I don't..." It doesn't end.
I grab his shoulder, put my face up next to him and whisper in a not-so-nice voice, "Lucas, I don't want to hear you say I don't want Wendy's. I already told you, we're not going there. We'll go to MacDonalds."
"But I want..."
"Uh, uh," I say every time he opens his mouth. He starts crying then, unable to get a word in.
"If I hear you say it one more time, we're going home."
The threat seems to work. I pull him off the change room bench and we walk to the car. When he starts to tell me about Old MacDonalds again, I tell him to look out the window and tell me what he sees.
"I see a schoolbus. Not a schoolbus. A bus."
"Oh," I say. "It's a bus-bus, not a schoolbus."
A shrill, "No Mommy! It's not a bus-bus, it's a bus."
"Okay, fine," I say.
"It's a bus, not a bus-bus."
I ignore him.
"Mommy, it's not a bus-bus, it's a bus." When he doesn't get a response, it continues. "It's a bus, Mommy, not a bus-bus."
"I know, Lucas," I say, summoning all my patience.
"It's a bus, Mommy."
I lean forward on the steering wheel and moan.
"Mommy is crying," he says.
"Yes, Mommy is crying, let's talk about that."
"Yes, honey?"
"It's a bus, not a bus-bus."
"Can you please be quiet now?"
We drive for a minute.
"Hey, look, there's Old MacDonalds!" he says.
And just for fun, I say, "I thought you wanted to go to Wendy's?"


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