Busted

No matter how much TV I sit him in front of, no matter how many video games I force him to play, I can’t seem to ruin Elijah’s memory.  The kid has a mind like a steel trap. 

And he uses it to bust me constantly.  Granted, a lot of my parenting skills involve pushing requests off to eternity with the hopes they’ll forget them.  Can we go to Chuck E Cheese?  Yeah, sure.  Next week.  Can we go get a Star Wars guy from Target?  Not today, but maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.

Anymore, 80% of Eli’s conversations with me start with, “Daddy, remember when you said…”

And then he’ll remember that time I told him I would add Star Wars Angry Birds onto the Poop Kindle.  Or he’ll remember that time I told him I’d buy him Legos if he’d stop screaming in the car.  Or he’ll remember that time I told him I’d teach him to ride without training wheels in February.

Most of the requests I can push off to manana…manana…manana.  And no, I do not know how to type an n with the little squiggle over the top.  And no, I do not know what the little squiggle over the top means. 

But I usually box myself into a corner pretty fast.  I tend to backload all requests to Saturday, which ends up being 24 hours of pink donuts with sprinkles, trips to the comic books store and bowel abusing trips to 5 Guys.

But ask the kid what he did at school three hours earlier? 

“I can’t remember.”