So now that my son's friend Bumble-Age is rotting away in solitary confinement in imagi-jail-land, he has decided to turn his attentions towards my behavior.
Last night as I tapped away at the keyboard minding my own business, Raphael suddenly became enraged with (who knows?) what I was doing.
Eema ("Mom") this is just enough. It's time for you to go. I'm calling "them"
And off marches an indignant, 3-foot tall, herr dictatore to retrieve the telephone.
Police? Yes. Uhum. My Eema. (laugh, laugh) Oh really? Yeah. Okay.
What a nice repor my 4-year-old has developed with local law enforcement. I must remember to invite the squad for lunch sometime.
They're coming to get you, Eema. That's it.
What did I do? I ask sheepishly, already well aware of the answer.
I'd been sitting at the computer for an hour. At this point, his painting project had run dry, the terrorized kitten was hiding safely out of reach underneath the clothing cabinet, the super hero action figures had gone out back for a smoke break and I was breaching the pact: Boredom had crept in and I was NOT fulfilling my duty of doubling as Entertainment Center Extraodinaire.
Wanna sword fight? I suggested.
Magic. He called off the heat.
I was just kidding. The police aren't coming he grinned.
Great. Nice kid. Let's hope I never REALLY make him angry or Bumble-Age and I will be filing down spoons for weapons and bribing guards for prison blueprints
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