We’re in the family room and Crappy Boy has this whole show he wants to act out for me with his toys.
I use the word “show” loosely. Really, he just wants me to watch him play.
It has something to do with fighting and yelling and more fighting.
It always has something to do with fighting and yelling and more fighting.
But I make a point to pay attention because he really, really wants me to. Although I’m with my kids all day long I try to be mindful of how much quality time I’m actually spending with them. How much attention and focus I actually give them. So I sit down and promise myself that I will see this story through to the end. I will watch the whole thing.
I pay attention.
I pay attention even though it is painful.
Painful because it is so boring.
Really, really boring.
But I still pay attention.
Ten minutes later…
It is still going!
I’m still paying attention!
We must be near the end now. Please?
Crappy Baby jumps onto my back and tries to choke me to death by hanging onto my neck from behind.
For ONE SECOND I turn to look at Crappy Baby while I pry off his chokehold and maneuver him down onto my lap.
ONE SECOND. Less than a second even. Probably one tenth of a second.
But Crappy Boy notices.
And gets mad.
And accuses me of not paying attention.
After attentively listening for over ten minutes I get accused of not paying attention because I was being choked to death and had to look away for less than one second to save my life?
Yep, that is pretty accurate.
What? Oh no! No, you really don’t! I saw it! All of it! I was watching! The whole time!
Crappy Baby jumps off my lap and escapes. Lucky.
Too late, I’m stuck.
Mama guilt is requiring me to write that he actually does make up brilliant (and interesting!) stories too. But the fighting and yelling kind? When he just wants me to watch him play? When all it involves is him wrestling two toys together at the same time while yelling? It just isn’t ever any good.
I’d almost rather watch Caillou. Almost.