Rollie and Tiller were acting up in the bathtub tonight. I got them out immediately (they usually get to play for a while) and Rollie stood shivering in his towel, lower lip quivering, and told me, “You don’t love me at all! You never loved me! You don’t have a red heart, you have a black heart!”
“Baby, where did you come up with that?”
“I don’t know, red is love and black is hate!” he yelled.
“I love you no matter what you do, and no matter how much i don’t love your behavior, Rollie,” i said, pulling the towel over his head like a hood and looking into his eyes. “Now go put on your PJs.”
Later, in his room, when he found out that he lost his bedtime story due to his behavior, he threw a tantrum. I told him to get into his bed. I said, “Night night, baby. I love you very much.”
Still angry with me, he pulled away from my kiss on his head and sputtered, “You have a . . a thousand, thousand black hearts!”
I struggled not to laugh or smile. Laughing at bad behavior is a parenting no-no. But in my blackest heart of hearts, I was so very bewitched by the poetry of my son telling me off.