Clash of the Titans
I took him shopping. Because that dear internet, is what eight year old boys like to do. Particularly bra and shoe shopping with their mother. I kept trying to tell him that we were spending quality time together. He kept telling me there was a hockey game on. (Damn you, hubs, you've converted my only remaining son into a hockey nut!)
It was a battle of wills. A clash of the titans, if you will. We both were determined to get what we wanted. Me: a new bra to squeeze my little A's into. Him: to watch the game while playing video games and having his soul slowly sucked from his body. Sadly, neither of us got what we wanted.
Because I am the boss of him, he had to come with me. His dad scored a ticket to the game last night (oh, yippy, they won) which meant the son was mine to torture and harass as I saw fit. But my son, he is a stubborn creature, he may have lost the battle, but he didn't want to lose the war.
Have you ever tried on bras with an eight year old boy on the loose in the store? He snickered, and giggled like the pre-pubescent boy he is. He very loudly announced that maybe I should try the bra with more padding, because I have such small bosoms. He poked every mannequin in the boob he could find. I believe he even put some lacy pink brazilian undies on his head in an effort to speed things along. But the straw that broke this camel's back was when I finally picked a pretty, lacy number, my darling son loudly asked (while standing next to a very cute man) if that bra would make my boobs sag less. Because they are rather hangy.
Hangy!? And the miracle of all this, is I still love him. And choose to feed him. That however, may come to a quick end...