I looked out my window while the coffee was brewing this morning. I had just sent all three boys to school and had a glorious morning all to myself (oh, how I crave silence!) when I saw a little five-year-old encased in a snowsuit trudging up my driveway. My five-year-old, to be exact. Shoulders hunched over, head down, dragging his backpack and the plastic bag his skates were in. Nothing if not dramatic, this child. Anyway, I opened the door and asked why he came back home.
“Mom, my arm hurts, the bag with my skates is too heavy. I need a ride to school.”
“Titus, you were just at the school. You were right beside it. I watched you go around the corner. Why did you come back?”
“My arm hurts!” Tears are now falling. I’m not impressed.
“You were there! Right beside the school! It was longer to walk home and ask for a ride then to walk the few steps to the door!”
More tears. I caved and put him in the car. What’s a mother to do?