I head upstairs, frustrated, calling for my son. I find him playing with some older boys in one of the upper floors of the house.
“It’s getting late,” I tell him, annoyed. “It’s almost 7:30.”
He is very little and just wants to keep playing for a while longer.
I tell him no. “I have things I need to do.”
One of the older kids scoffs at me “Oh, you have things to do…” and I tell him to shut the fuck up, immediately regretting talking that harshly in front of my young son.
He pleads a little bit more, promising he will clean up after if I let him play longer.
“I always clean up for you,” I remind him. “You never pick things up.”
He is very sad, eye red with tears and his light hair is sticking out like fluff.
I relent and hug him, saying gently “It’s okay, you can keep playing. And don’t worry about cleaning up. I take care of things for you. Just have fun with your friends.”
…
I wake, long before sunrise, too worried about my son to go back to sleep.