I don’t know where to begin, so I guess I’ll start with the bottom line; my son hates me.

I took Silas to the movies yesterday. Much of what went on during that hour and forty three minutes is already a blur, as I tend to block traumatic experiences. I know most people wouldn’t think of bringing a 2 year old to a movie theater. Let’s face it; toddlers have the attention span of a gnat, mood swings of a menopausal woman, and lungs like a fog horn. I saw the dirty looks we got as we walked down the aisle. I didn’t care. I know my kid. He is evil, but he’s mine, and I can keep him under wraps for a couple of hours.

I can honestly tell you that he didn’t disturb a single person in that theater. He kept his volume low. He didn’t whine, cry or fuss. He didn’t squirm around or run up and down the aisles. Since I’m being honest, I’ll also tell you what he did do. He took off his sandals and threw them in opposite directions, and while I was down on the floor trying to find them, I also found my phone, which I didn’t even know was missing. He opened my soda, and proceeded to wash his hands, face and neck with Diet Coke. He took a piece of candy he’d found on the floor, and put it into my mouth. It was chocolate. We had Skittles. I spent the last 25 minutes of the movie singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” until he went to sleep right as the credits began to roll. On the way out someone was kind enough to tell me I had Skittles stuck to my butt.

Like I said; my son hates me.

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