Before we had a repeat of Monday’s lunch, I laid down the law: The dining room table, contrary to what it may seem, was not a race track and those feet (pointing to my son’s) were not at a track meet.
Both kids nodded.
At which time my son dismissed the law and its consequences and dashed away with a carrot stick.
“To the stairs,” I said. And I watched as he skipped to time out like he was headed to grandma’s house.
We tried our chairs again. Only this time both my son and his sister sprang from their chairs like last night’s weeds and twirled with their sandwiches until there were tiny trails of tuna fish by each chair leg.
“To the stairs,” I said again. And the two romped down the hallway for another party in time out.
It was completely peaceful for one minute. Which was when I saw the cookies.
“We’ll try this again,” I said. “If your bottom leaves the chair, no cookie for you.” I let it sink in. “No cookie. For you.”
But I didn’t care.
I liked it even.
And I noticed how both kids’ bottoms seemed attached to their chairs by duct tape.
Two minutes passed.
At which time my daughter’s eyes grew bright. She leaned back in her chair and spoke across the table to her brother. “I bet you can’t hop on one leg to the wall.”
And like that, my son flung himself from his chair shouting, “I bet I can!”