Trash talk

We have to leave in like 5 minutes. Grab a toy (read: ONE toy) and get your hiney in the car. No, 6 toys is 5 too many. More? No. ONE toy!

I take a phone call and 5 minutes later the oldest is asking me where my purse is and didn't it used to be in your room? Hey, why don't you check one of those trash cans outside.

I follow the kid outside and he leads me to the green trash bin that holds our green waste. Inside; my Uggs, two pair of slippers, my favorite hat, and a bag of clothes (my "purse"). I tip the thing over and crawl inside. It smells. Nasty. We're late and I'm in a trash bin. I want to wring his neck. It took all the Zoloft I had in me not to. Instead we had a civil talk about how we just don't throw people's stuff in nasty trash cans. It's just not good manners.

His excuse was that since I was being the meanest I ever could be, ever, that he had to do the meanest thing he could ever do. If trashing my stuff was the meanest thing he could think to do, we must be doing something right with him.