There is at least one fig tree in every garden.

You get a fig from a fig tree, my mother says.

This was a tough weekend – every single sentence out of B’s mouth started with “Mommy …”  Loads of questions.  Unending negotiations. B hasn’t been getting enough sleep, so he’s grumpy.  I’ve been dealing with a cranky five year old, so I’m grumpy.

A shopping trip for an emergency swimsuit purchase (for B) almost ended in a meltdown, and featured me crouched down among an assortment of swim trunks, hissing, “If you don’t get it together we are getting in the car and leaving, and you are not going to get to play at the beach!

Cut to us, tidying up in preparation to head home.  I snapped something at B – pick up your shoes, your toys, please stop throwing that Nerf football in the house – to which he replied, sternly:

Mommy, you are being too bossy.  If you don’t stop being so bossy, we are going to have to spend another night at this place. **

Do you hear that?  The sound of the needle skidding across a suddenly silenced record?

Mr looked over at me and asked, incredulously, “Did our five-year-old just give you an ultimatum?”  When I nodded, he laughed and said, “That’s your son, baby.  That is all you.  I had nothing to do with that attitude!”

I have to agree.

** I’m not sure why spending the night was considered a suitable punishment – probably because I’d told him we couldn’t, since I had work, and he had school, on Monday.

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