Thursday, February 24, 2011
One of my sons is a hypochondriac. Fabulous. A feather can brush against his finger and he will then carry on for the next ten minutes about his sore finger...about how he needs mommy to kiss it better...about how it is going to fall off...about how there is going to be a nuclear holocaust if someone doesn't stop the North Korean regime before it's too late. Ok - he might not use words like Holocaust...he is only 2 1/2 after all. He also has this new excuse when he doesn't want to do something..."my (insert body part) hurts". I looked at him the other day after his 42nd body part of the day had been injured/hurt and said "I know that you don't understand what I'm about to say to you, bust you really have the wrong mother to be trying to pulling such stunts. I am in a profession where I know what it means to have something hurt and believe me - you are not hurt. And trust me, it is only going to get harder and harder for you to try and convince me otherwise". My 2 1/2 year old just looked at me and ran off to play with his fire truck...his decrepit, painful, injured body suddenly and magically cured. For the time being at least.
Posted by Jenn at 8:48 AM