“Mom, I messed up my bed,” the Wee Man reported with his stopped-up-nose voice.
“Why did you do that?”
“That was your consequence for not giving me a knife.”
Oh. So because you threw your knife across the floor because your sister gave it to you instead of me and I refused to give you another knife, you’re punishing me by messing up your bed, which I just made and you clearly need to return to.
Love that logic.
I know you’re feeling bad, son. I know you’re frustrated. I love that you feel empowered enough to dole out punishments to your misbehaving mom.
But I am your mom. So I’ll see your messed up bed consequence and raise you one calm request to return to your room and fix it. I’ll congratulate myself for not losing my cool and fanning the flames of sick day drama.
Then I’ll go back to my parenting books and see if I can figure out how to temper your sense of justice with a little respect for author-i-tah. Not much, mind you. Just enough that you’ll stop throwing knives.