“Can I have chocolate?”
“You loved spaghetti Tuesday.”
“That was Tuesday.”
I turned down the burner and faced him.
My son was seven years old, stubborn enough to negotiate with weather, and currently wearing one sock because he’d decided the other one was “too tight emotionally.”
My son was seven years old, stubborn.
“Close the freezer.”
Tyler did, but only after staring into it one last time like a prisoner being separated from civilization.
Then he crossed his arms.
“You’re the meanest mom ever.”
“Put it on my resume.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Ice cream after dinner.”
“You’re the meanest mom ever.”
He stomped down the hallway.
His bedroom door slammed.
I shook my head and went back to the sauce.
Being a single mother meant I chose my battles carefully. I would negotiate bedtime by 10 minutes. I occasionally pretended not to notice socks on the living room floor.
