Sent to his Room

Oh, the tears. And the drama. Did I mention the tears?

We were having a perfectly lovely day puttering around the house when I realized that the plow man, who doesn't normally grace us with his presence until 2pm on most days, decided to whip through our complex a few hours early...while I was in the shower. Since I didn't hear him coming, I didn't move my car out to the other side of the lot so that he could plow out our parking spaces (which would have been really really swell since we're in the throws of an ice storm and it's, well, icy). Great. Not wanting to tick off my neighbor, who also didn't get his parking area plowed thanks to me, I dressed Lucas and myself, (I was wearing capri pajama bottoms, orange and pink flowered rain boots, a sweatshirt and damp hair...thank you for wondering) and we headed out to do what the plow man did not. I didn't realize that any part of shoveling involved pitching a right fit, so I was unprepared for what came next.

My shovel touched his snow.

And then all hell broke loose and world ended. So if you felt like there some sort of cosmic shift today but you couldn't really put your finger on it? That was totally my fault and I'm sorry.

The tears wouldn't stop and the whining got louder and I tried to explain to him that, hello!? There is PLENTY of snow to go around. Like actual metric tons of snow. Take your pick...how 'bout some of this snow, or maybe some from that pile over there? No? How about if I take that tiny bit of snow that my shovel touched and put it back into your pile there and then never look at your snow pile or your shovel ever again? Still no?

I couldn't take another second of the screeching so I pointed my finger at him and then at our front door and I demanded that he GO. TO. HIS. ROOM. I have never sent him to room before. I wasn't even sure after I ordered him to go that he would know what to do. Which sounds silly, I know...but...still. I let him struggle a little with the door and he made his way in and closed it behind him. I continued to shovel until I was done (or mostly done) and I went inside to survey the damage. Heh. I had to try REALLY hard not to laugh. There inside the door were his boots, right where they belong and his jacket was hung on his hook. So even in the throws of a good tantrum he had the presence of mind not to track snow through the house. Good boy. He heard me come in and hollered down the stairs from his bed that he was "wicked sad and needed a hug." And then I felt like a big dirt bag but at least he wasn't flipping out. We hugged it out and all was good, but he did feel the need to remind me every hour or so that I shouldn't have put my shovel in his pile of snow.

Lesson learned.