“I told you to do something about the weapons all over the floor of your room,” I reminded him, “and the clean laundry is still piled on your chair. You need to put it away.”
“But I didn’t put the laundry there,” he complained, his tone betraying deep self pity, “Somebody else did.”
And then my head exploded, shot off my neck, spun around the room like a balloon deflating, and as it came back to rest I heard myself say these words.
“I’m so sorry that I picked up your clothes for you and walked them all the way to your bedroom from the laundry room so that you wouldn’t have to make those extra steps yourself and that all you had to do was to place the clothes that I washed and folded for you into the proper places in your drawers. What was I thinking trying to make your life easier by bringing you your clean laundry? What was I thinking, washing it and folding it for you? I am so sorry for the inconvenience it has caused you. It’s must be horrible to have to deal with something like this.”
Sarcasm, not exactly the Plan A of parenting, but when the choice is between that and strangling the child and then beating him on the head with his own severed limbs I’m glad it’s the latter that came out.
I’m sure going to enjoy not having to wash his clothes any more.