Wyatt stood in our hallway, feet in his socks firmly planted on the floor. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay here!”
Yesterday, I brought Rory and Wyatt home for about an hour before picking Lily and Sam up from school. I’d meant for us to stay out–but they were so awful, so whiny and obnoxious to me and to one another, that we ran one errand, abandoned the plan for coffee and treats (with a rousing declaration of “no way, I wouldn’t take you two out in public for all the cash in Texas”) and headed for home, where things improved to the point that Rory and Wyatt were able to play their version of chess (Wyatt knows the rules, Rory doesn’t, and doesn’t like to be told, usually ends badly) and eat some popcorn and even throw in a little knee hockey. Until it was time to go.
“I AM NOT GOING!”
Wyatt, as you will have gathered, did not want to go pick up Sam, Lily and Lily’s friend. Wyatt was peeved. HE wanted a playdate. (That was part of the earlier issue.) And now he was home. He did not want to go out again (really, who would?). Part of the problem with living where we do (WAY out of town) and still, yanno, participating fully in life is the amount of driving involved– again, part of the reason why we were going to stay out–is the driving. The in and out of the car. All day long. We try to keep it to a minimum (the school is actually the closest public building to out house) but there it is. And Wyatt did NOT want to go.
What does one do, here?
I know–I could threaten him into the car, so easy. But I’m trying to wean myself off threats. I am trying to give them more control. More choices. I’ve been all about Parenting on Track, as you know. And I’m pretty sure that’s not in the PoT manual.
I counted to three and he got in the car. But what about next time?