Taking Adam to mass is better than it was, but it is still no picnic by any means. I usually go armed with some big, thick picture filled animal book to get him through the hour. A large clunky volume which he, inevitably, will drop on the floor and make a huge production out of picking up. Just like this morning.
I sat there dumbfounded watching him make little to no progress in actually picking up the book and looked on as Grandma came to his rescue. I wanted to badly to say to him, “SERIOUSLY! You took Daddy’s car keys yesterday, went outside and successfully put the key in the ignition, turned it to the accessory position, turned on the radio and the headlights, but yet, YOU CANNOT PICK A BOOK OFF THE FLOOR?” He was a half step from going all Thelma and Louise on us, but reaching down 18 inches is beyond his skill set?
As an aside, I take full responsibility for the car incident yesterday. Earlier in the day, I had stepped out to pump gas and left the accessory on so he could listen to the radio. When I returned, he asked why the radio didn’t turn off like it usually does and without realizing it would later be used against me, I explained “oh see, if you turn the key like this… the radio will play.” Stupid, stupid me.
He followed up this display by pointing at walls which produced this scintillating, hissed conversation.
Stop that! Stop pointing because it’s rude.
I’m pointing at the wall.
Just stop please.
But the wall doesn’t care if I point at it? See?? ::point, point, point::
He paused in this behavior to then make his finger into the shape of a gun and point it toward the priest. I’m pretty sure this was a variation on the “I’m pointing” routine and not a true assassination play. I hope.
He rounded out the fun little episode of stubborn behavior by lifting his arm straight in the air with a balled little fist at the end which struck me less as “black power” and more as “Heil Hitler” when combined with his facial expression. But according to him, he was no longer pointing, thus fully in compliance with my wishes.
After mass, he was to leave with my mother and go to her house for an afternoon of mama free restrictions. He asked pointedly, “Will you be there?” I quizzed him, wondering why that mattered. “Because if you aren’t there, I can sneak more stuff.” Fab.
In the parking lot resisting all efforts to hold my hand and avoid the plethora of cars who were leaving the scene, my mother started to warn him:
You’d better watch out… well, there’s nothing that you can do that will make your mother say I can’t take you home from church with me today.