Husband is working late. I’ve got three hours to kill before dinner and only ten minute’s worth of patience.
“I have an idea,” I say to Mister after dinner. “Do you want to get Italian ice?”
“Okay,” he squeals and shows off his new jumping legs.
We load the car and we’re off on our short drive. After a short line, he chooses the flavor and we settle onto a bench.
Mister can not ever EVER sit still. Tonight is no different.
“Sit on your bum,” I tell him. He kneels and turns around to watch the cars pass.
“Why do I want you to sit on your bum?” I try a different way.
“To stay safe,” he parrots. He sits. But only for a minute.
I use each bite as bait, drawing him back over to my side of the bench and forcing him to sit down.
He takes each spoonful and retreats again. I see him reach the end of the bench and I lunge but it’s too late. He falls. On his head. In public. Making me look like the bad mother I often feel I am. But I still have to fight every urge I have to say “told you so.”
What internal struggle do you engage in when you write?