The Voice in the Backseat

There's something about being in his car seat with its cow-print covering that emboldens Cody to tell me what he's really thinking.  After our playdate with their classmate, her sister, and her mom last Saturday, he said very softly, "You gave Manon (the mom) too much attention.  I wanted you to play with us."

This morning, after I had finally wrangled both kids into their seats and jumped into mine, I heard the voice from the back say: "You are being too mean this morning."

"What do you mean, honey?" I asked.

"Screaming at us."

I was busted.  I hadn't actually screamed, but I knew what he meant.  I had been impatient, I had raised my voice, and most importantly, I had unleashed my arsenal of manipulative techniques to keep them on schedule. 

Threats to take Liv to the hospital if she continued her two-day hunger strike.  Threats to make the kids wait for me downstairs if they couldn't stop swinging from the closet doorknobs while I put on my lipstick.  Even a little soupçon of guilt trip that their peers seemed to have no trouble at all hopping blithely into their seats without taking unapproved head-first detours into the "cuckooback" (Liv's word for the cargo area) of the minivan. 

The worst of it is that there was no rush to be on time today -- the one executive at my company who cares what time I show up is on vacation in France through the first week of August.

"I'm sorry, guys.  What could I do to be better?" I asked them.

"Not screaming at us when it's time to go to school," Cody said.

"Okay, thank you," I said.  "Do you forgive me?" I asked.

He kept staring out the window.  Finally, he grunted, "Yeah."