Brett is such a joy. And a trial. At age three he keeps me on my toes, as I’m sure most three-year-olds do. He has a dramatic flair. He definitely thinks he knows best.

So just a few minutes ago, I was on the phone, and I realized he and Cole are out in the truck, or going to the truck. In their new shoes. Their new indoor shoes.

So I told them of course, to come back in. I concentrate on my phone conversation, and when I look out again, Cole is back in the house, and Brett is nearly ankle-deep in a muddy puddle. I LOST IT!!!

So I quickly sign off - thanks, Dawn! - and go outside. Doing my best mother-in-control impression, I’m clenching my jaw, grabbing him by the arm, and give him a swat on the bottom as soon as we get in the door. I was so mad! And out of control! I need to get it under control. It’s humbling.

So I’ve ripped the shoes off his feet, he’s run downstairs crying, and I’m furiously wiping the shoes clean.

In a few minutes, we’re both calmed down, and I go downstairs, and explain to him why I got angry. I need to actually apologize as well. Anyway, now he’s insisting he needs new shoes. I said, “No, you just need to obey.” His reply.

“I don’t want to ‘bey. I don’t want to go the mud pud for my new shoes.”

What ever will I do?