It's time for our nightly bedtime story (which The Kid reads to me now, instead of the other way around). He has a new book from the school library, and he excitedly shows me the cover. It shows a glittery dragon battling a robotic Viking. The dragon has something bright coming out of his mouth, which he is directing menacingly at the robot.
"What's in his mouth?"
The kid gives me that look. The one I used to give my own mother. The one that begs me to figure it out for myself before he has to answer and acknowledge my idiocy.
I take a closer look. "A flashlight?"
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, disgusted. "It's a dragon, Mom. A fire-breathing dragon. It's fire."
I'm laughing so hard at my own stupidity, I hear only the finale to his sarcastic rant. "...like that's how dragons fight. They get angry and then they blind the robots with their giant flashlights."
And then we both collapse onto his bed in a pile of giggles.
Revisiting the Bad Mother Manifesto
1 hour ago