Back Talk

For those of you that read yesterday's post, can you remind me just how long I was gone?  It felt like only a few days, but ever since I've been home and back into our daily routine, I've discovered that Cael is behaving as though he is 15, not five. 

Sure, at face value that might seem like a good deal.  No more cramming wiggly arms into long sleeves, no more tying shoes once, twice, seventy-nine times a day, maybe even no more tiny Thomas the Train cars laying around to tempt Oscar into breaking one of his remaining teeth.

But even if I were able to give up all of my toddler-related pet-peeves, I would not choose to if it meant a lifetime of dealing with the snotty back-talk I've been facing the last 72 hours.  Never in my adult life have I known a person to so strategically sass one's parent in order to exert their independence and simultaneously make the folks proud of their child's intelligence and potential career in politics.

"Cael, come over here and eat your lunch, please."

"I don't like that."

"Well, this is what I made and this is what you'll eat."

"Nope."

"Either you can join us for dinner, or you can continue to whine and have a time-out." 

"If you put me in time-out, I'll just sit there and yell until you let me out."

"Excuse me?!?"

"Yep.  I'll yell so loud that you can't have a good dinner.  And if you still make me sit there, then I'll be happy because I got to stay up late tonight."

"That's not how it works, and you know it."

"Yes it is.  And if you send me to my room, then I win because I didn't have to stay in the time-out spot."

By this point, I can generally feel my blood start to boil.  If my life were an episode of Jerry Springer, (and it often feels like it is) this is the part where I'd take off my earrings and throw a Walmart shoe at him.  Instead, I try to keep my cool while Joel is unable to hide "the giggles" that come when his son dishes out the same brand of trouble he served to his parents more than twenty years ago.

"So I win.  Ha."

How am I supposed to teach this little demon a lesson when he's put me in a lose-lose situation?  If I leave him in time-out, he'll whoop and holler until he has successfully ruined our dinner.  If I send him to his room, even to continue the time-out, he has succeeded in leaving the dreaded corner. 

What is a mom to do?

"Did you know that if Iron Man isn't nice to his Mommy, his mask and suit go  in the trash?" 

"...I'm coming..."