On Friday, I took Matthew with me to pick up some lunch from Rachel's favorite sandwich place. After ordering, they didn't seem in any particular hurry to fill the order, and I felt bad for Matthew, stuck in his seat with nothing to do but talk to Dad, who is, after all, incredibly old.
I asked him if he would like to draw, and handed him a pen and some small sheets of paper that were conveniently in the front seat. He seemed to be having a good time, but either he ran out of paper or needed something more exciting.
"Dada, you draw A B Cs my han' [hand]?"
"No, son. I don't want to draw on your hand."
"You draw A B Cs my leg?"
"No, son. I don't want to draw on your skin at all."
That seemed to settle it. Then: "I draw two A B C my pants!"
Uh-oh. I turned around, and while there was little resemblance to the alphabet, his pants were extensively festooned with ink.
"Son," I said, "It is not good to draw on your pants. It's not good to draw anywhere except on paper. I don't know what to do with you, but I'm sure your mama will when we get home. She will not be happy to see this." I wasn't particularly angry, and I didn't raise my voice, but he got the message.
We got the food and drove home. When we arrived, Matthew immediately made a beeline for his room and hid behind the door. I pulled him out to tell his mom what he did, and he ran back, this time hiding under the covers. For the next two hours he was very subdued, and insisted he'd rather be in bed than eating lunch.
Finally I went to check on him, and he was in much better spirits. He'd changed his pants and was apparently feeling much less doomed.
(We never did impose a punishment. Seems like two hours of feeling impending doom about to descend on you ought to be enough!)
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