Being Quiet

 Rachel keeps trying to teach Andy a fundamental quality for life - learning when to shut up.  He cannot grasp it.  Last night was one of those exceptionally fabulous nights where the parent (moi) kept losing her temper for small little things of almost no consequence but were constantly surrounded by an edge of whining.


"Andy, stop.  Stop right there.  No more."


"But YOU'RE not even listening to me!"


"I have listened to you...you're saying the same thing over and over again and we are done talking about this."


"No, I'm not!  You didn't let me finish what..."


"Andrew!  Stop!  Now!"


"Stop yelling at me!  You won't stop..."


"I'll stop yelling when you learn to stop arguing.  Learn when to stop talking!"


"I have learned that.  I learned that a long time ago!"


"Why are you still talking then?"


"Because you won't listen to me!  YOU..."


"STOP TALKING NOW!"


"OKAY!  BUT..."


And that's when I grab the nearest item of threat, a water bottle in this case, and go toward him.  He runs away, squawking about something.  But he shuts up (in the room that I'm in).


Meanwhile, Rachel's just shaking her head and says "I talk to him about this a lot, Mom..."


"Well, apparently he learned it years ago."  I'm caught between mild amusement and seething rage.  Not pretty.  I can't decide if it's just he's smart-alecky and we are terrible parents or if he genuinely doesn't get those pesky social cues like tone-of-voice-means-you're-about-to-get-hurt.  I'm going to go with a little of both (at least I can then take some responsibility for my kid's behavior and chalk some of it up to stupid genetics which are NOT MINE - see how I did that?  I won't even be responsible for the stubborn genetics).


Oh, what were we discussing?  It doesn't matter.