Tucker was practicing his grouchy voice this morning, where he acts like a grumpy bear at the breakfast table. He growls, lurches at the unsuspecting brother, threatens to throw people and things in the garbage, and sneers hungrily at everything but his breakfast.
It's not my favorite way to start the day, and we're working on it. (A few trips back to his bed have curbed this trend, but he seems to feel on many a morning that it's worth a try once more.)
Finally, I said, "Tucker, I've had enough of this angry voice. Do not talk again until your voice is kind."
And do you know what he said? Are you ready for this?
My four-year-old said, "Mommy, it's my life."
It's his life. His life. That's what he told me.
I burst out laughing, out of shock and sheer audacity. Oh, really, kiddo?
When I composed myself, I said, "Yes, it is your life. And it's ours too. And I don't want you ruining our mornings with your angry voice."
But I was thinking, "Yes, it's your life. And I'm going to go ahead and shape it for you for as far as your eye can see. For the next many, many years, expect me to be in charge of it."
His life. Please.