He did not punch me in the knee, which for reasons I cannot explain, he finds hilarious.
He did not rip any pages from Matthew's "Berenstain Bears" books, nor did he stretch an entire roll of Scotch tape from one end of the antique dining room table to the other.
He did not spit his apple down the side of the couch because he "hates the bits, Mummy!"
He did not squeeze toothpaste into the Q-tip container.
|He did NOT manage to steer clear of the mud.|
He did not attempt to shove the second "How to Train Your Dragon" DVD into the player by himself, like he did with the first one.
He did not pout and say, "NO!" when I asked him to take the toilet paper rolls back up the stairs.
He did not run away in the grocery store and did not bang on the glass in the fish section, hollering at the lobsters to "Wake up, crabs! Wake UP!"
He did not roll down his window in the car and spit.
He did not complain when I read Matthew's storybook first and did not run away and hide in the porch, hissing, when I announced that it was time for bed.
He did not snatch Matthew's stuffed snake down from the top bunk and cackle like a loon.
He did not stick his tongue in the fan nor did he dump two bottles of perfectly good water onto his floor so he could "swim in a carpet lake."
|He did not offer a simple "Cheese!" when asked.|
He did not stick his tongue up my nostril when I leaned in to kiss him goodnight, nor did he put his hand over my mouth and plead, "Don't sing, Mummy. Your singing hurts me!"
He did not beg for one more cup of water, another story or to sleep with his "Cars" crocs on.
He DID, however, pat my cheek as I tucked him in and say, "Mummy, you're the best."
That he did.