Someone’s yelling. It’s a grumpy three-year-old. “Get out of bed, Mom.” Whining and foot stomping is involved, admittedly from both of us. Stunned, I obey. I stand up, pull my hair up in a ponytail. Jon is chuckling in the bathroom. This is when it happens. I get a firm shove on my backside, and Graham firmly states, “Mom, get in the kitchen.”
Say what? Get in the kitchen? Oh, Lord. I’ve really screwed up. How did my sweet and innocent child turn into a bossy, sexist, little twerp? Shoving me out of bed and demanding that I get him breakfast? He didn’t ask my husband to help. Nope, apparently the woman belongs in the kitchen, according to the men in my house. Jon, seemingly amused, strolled out of his closet and came to my rescue (for I guess in this story, I am the damsel in distress). “Don’t talk to your mother that way,” he lectured. “Yeah,” I added.
I guess I have a little bit of work to do if I’m going to raise women-respecting, perfect Southern gentlemen. And, I thought I was doing so well…
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