Monday, June 14, 2010

Sunday evening, around 6pm

It's been raining all afternoon.

Me: Ryan, wanna go down to the basement and play in the hall*?

Ryan: Yes, I want to play in the hall.

Me:  Want to ride your bike?

Ryan: Yes, I want to ride my bike.

We put on shoes, he rolls his bike into the dining room, I put on his helmet.  Ryan then opens the coat closet and starts poking around on the floor.

Me:  OK, let's go downstairs.

Ryan straddles his bike, starts to pedal toward the door, cries, pedals, cries some more.

Me:  What's wrong?  What do you need?

Ryan: (incomprehensible word sounds/screeching/crying) skates (sobbing/screaming)

Me: Oh, do you want to go skating?

Ryan, tearfully: Yes.

Me: OK.

I take off his shoes, put on his skates and kneepads.  He skates through the door, starts to cry, throws himself on the floor.

Stu/Me: What? What do you want? (etc.)

Ryan: (crying/screeching/mucous) off the skates (crying/screaming).

Stu and I remove Ryan's skates and pads, offer him shoes.  Ryan dissolves in tears and snot.

Ryan: Wah aaah aaah mommy wah aaah on da skates aaah play in da hall.

Stu and I confer and agree that Ryan must want me to skate while he rides his bike in the hallway.  I put on my skates and kneepads.

Me: I'm ready, get your bike.

Ryan runs screaming down the hall, falls to the floor in front of the elevator.

Ryan, tearfully: Can... I.... have... play in the hall please?

For the love of God, yes, that's what we've been trying to do here.

I hold Ryan in the elevator while he sobs.  I use the bottom of his shirt to wipe his nose.  We get to the basement.  I ask if he wants to race.  I chase him once down the hall.  He throws himself on the floor crying.  I tell him to follow me home.

Ryan opens our door, puts his shoes on the shoe shelf, grabs a magic marker, and starts drawing at his easel perfectly calmly and contentedly.

Me: You're going to be the death of me, Kid.

I take off my skates and fantasize about margaritas.  Scene.

* There is a long tunnel between the buildings in my complex.

1 comment:

  1. I'm reading this and I swear it's as if you have written about a day at my house with my 5 year old. It's nice to see that I am not the only one with frustrating days! *hugs*


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