A Tarnished Crown

I mentioned recently that Michael’s taking swimming lessons.

Because the lessons are at 6:30 and are about 20 minutes from home, it throws our evening schedule into a frenzy. Dinner becomes a side thought as finding a towel and swim trunks and getting into the car quickly become the main goal of the evening.

One evening, I was buckling Michael into the car while his mom gathered his things and brought out his dinner: a PB&J sandwich, some tomatoes and a juice pack. Finally in the car and on our way, Michael tucked into his sandwich.

“Mommy, the peanut butter is all hard,” he complained. We use an organic peanut butter that requires refrigeration. So when it comes time to use it, it’s best to microwave it for a few seconds to loosen it up. Unfortunately, that night every second counted so she skipped that part, opting instead to use brute force to spread the peanut butter on the bread. “You didn’t cook the peanut butter!”

“Sorry, Michael. I just didn’t have the time to warm it up.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t cook the peanut butter,” he went on. “I am done with you.”

“You’re done with her?” I asked, teasing. “So, we should just fire her and let her go live somewhere else?”

“Yes!” he said, obviously perturbed at her poor performance.

“Gosh, that’s too bad,” I said. “That means no more mommy snuggles at night, no more mommy picking you up at school, and no more of mommy’s chocolate chip cookies…”

He immediately changed his mind: “No! No! Mommy’s good! She needs to stay. I want her to stay. She’s okay, she’s okay!”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” I said. “I’d hate for her to have to go away.”

We rode on in relative silence for a short time.

And then he said, in a low and ominous tone: “But I’m watching her.”