I’m Fired

This past weekend, I woke up to my husband telling me he had a show on Netflix he thought I would like. It was Peaky Blinders, but that’s not part of this story.

I trudged downstairs to our basement at 7:30 a.m., where my husband put on the show. At about 8, my 4-year-old son Luke came down the stairs and said he wanted breakfast RIGHT NOW. There was stomping involved.

Now, he’s usually not so demanding. Usually he says please. So I had to set him straight, that he’s not the one in charge, that I am not his personal slave.

So I told him that I’d make him breakfast when my show was over.

He answered, “You’re FIRED.” (Where he came up with this term, I’ll never know. Actually, my 9-year-old Patrick just piped in: SpongeBob gets fired, so that’s where he got it.)

I laughed and said, “If you want a new mom, go for it.”

He stood there thinking, then said, “But then you’d need to get divorced.” (I know where this comes from: My husband was married before, so he does know the term.)

My husband responded. “Just because you want a new mom doesn’t mean I have to get divorced.”

Luke stood there, thoughtfully, his temper-tantrum behind him. And he decided that he could wait 20 minutes for breakfast, that he would keep me after all.

So I’m not fired. But I’m definitely on “notice.”

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