I had the grumps last night. The weather was gorgeous outside and I desperately wanted to sit outside and read a book. Instead, I did the right thing and cooked dinner for my family. My son proceeded to complain about what I served. He’s nine and has suddenly become finicky and opinionated. Okay, maybe not so suddenly; it’s been building for years. But this was NOT the night to complain to Mom. I shot him a dark look and growled like a pit bull who has been poked with a stick.
My husband tried to help out by clearing the dishes (except for my son’s, because said child was still glumly staring at the chicken taco and refried beans) and joking about the matter. “Just think dear, your next book can be 101 Things To Do With a Nine-Year-Old.”
It was then that my son piped up with, “Yeah, and 92 of them HURT!”