Last Friday night, I was trying to brush Baby Girl’s teeth to get her ready for bed. I had just finished going over Little Man’s teeth, so I asked him to talk to his sister and get her to smile to make the job easier.
“I need my fingernails cut,” he responded.
“In a few minutes,” I told him while trying to hold the squirming toddler. “Help me with your sister, please.”
“My fingernails really need to be cut. You always cut them on Thursdays, but didn’t yesterday.”
“Okay…help me with your sister and I’ll get them later.”
“Nah, I’ve got better things to do,” he said and walked out.
What the actual fuck?
Rather than chase him down and give him an earful then, I did all the things I do to make BG laugh and smile and got her teeth clean (I hope). She’s one of those types who, in addition to giving me trouble with her fingernails, also thinks having her teeth brushed is the worst possible thing in the world and usually pitches a fit over it.
Right as I was finished with her teeth, Little Man appeared. “Are you ready to trim my nails now?”
I was rather pissed at him, so I responded, “Nah, I’ve got better things to do” and walked off, figuring he’d get it and apologize. (Probably not the best approach, I realize after typing it.)
Instead, the waterworks began. “Daddy,” Little Man wailed while going down the hall towards the kitchen where my husband was fixing BG’s nighttime bottle, “Mommy won’t cut my nails.”
Sam gave him a look. “Okay.” He didn’t offer to do it, as he has never, ever trimmed a single fingernail in this house other than his own. (There are other things he’s never done, but I did get him to use our not-so-new vacuum cleaner for the first time last week.)
“Someone wouldn’t help his mom when she asked and told her she had better things to do,” I said in a stern voice.
Sam raised his eyebrows at Little Man and gave him a That’s Serious look. Little Man kept sniffling. “MOMMY WANTS ME TO STAB MYSELF TO DEATH IN MY SLEEP!” he wailed.
Sam covered his mouth to keep from laughing and I just shook my head (but had a good laugh over it later). “Get in the bathroom,” I told him. I trimmed his nails which were just a tiny bit long–certainly not long enough to stab oneself in one’s sleep–and gave him a good talking to about his lack of help and rude response earlier.
That massive exaggeration reminded me of when Little Man was 3 or 4 and got scolded and wailed, “My heart, it’s broken!”
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