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Mooooom, I’m done.

Mooom. Mooooom. Mom. Mom.  Moooooooom, I’m do-ne. (extra syllables added for emphasis, of course.)

I try to ignore him hoping that he will get tired of calling me and take care of things himself.  However, this one is abnormally persistent.  He knows that one of the two other big people in the house will get tired of hearing him call and eventually chime in.

MOM! He’s DONE!  (really, you think I am deaf?)

The over irritated lazy big brother is not going to budge but, the Girl-in-the-Middle is almost always up for showing an extra bit of attention when she feels her brother is being treated unjustly.

Moooom, (in that you-ought-to-be-ashamed tone) he needs your help.

Well, truth is, he doesn’t need my help, I am tired of helping when he doesn’t want to do it, and he will never learn for himself if everyone else does everything for him.  I am willing to continue to help with his shirt, or zip his zippers, or tie his shoes but, I am extremely tired of having to step away from cooking dinner, eating dinner, or just relaxing to go to the bathroom and wipe his butt.

I believe The Boy to be reincarnated ancient royalty.  Or, at least, I believe him to think that he is royalty.  He often refuses to eat unless he is fed and refuses to dress himself claiming that he doesn’t know how and “I can’t do it until I learn, mom.”  I am sometimes guilty of wanting him to get finished with his food and resorting to feeding him to get this accomplished.  I am also guilty of helping him dress and undress before allowing him an opportunity to try without me.  But, I am not guilty of rushing into the bathroom to grab the toilet paper before he can get it so that I may have the wonderful pleasure of wiping his dang blasted butt.

I don’t want to do it anymore.  To his dismay, my refusal has stuck.  He calls.  I ignore.  He calls.  I ignore.  He calls.  I call back, “Do it yourself.”

But, I can’t.  I don’t know how to fold the paper.

Don’t worry about how it is folded.

But, I can’t get the paper, it is going to rip.

It is supposed to rip.  Just rip the paper and WIPE YOUR BUM.

But, I can’t. Will you come help me?

You can do it, you are a big boy.

No I’m not.  I can’t.

Okay.  Then sit there all day.

Boy tearing toilet paper

The Boy meticulously tears toilet paper (only two squares every time)

At least ten minutes will pass with him blessing me out under his breath.  Talking to himself, “I can’t do it and she won’t help but the paper is going to rip and i don’t want the paper to rip and it’s not fair because she won’t help me and I need help and I want her to help me because I can’t do it myself.”

Mom, I wiped my bum.  Can you come check?

Of course. (hey, it’s a start.)

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