Wilder has something of a dramatic side in him. He's been known to sit in front of the mirror when crying, looking at his face from all sides to, I guess, see which looks the most authentically crushed. Presumably he does this because he's both impressed by his own theatrics, and because he's plotting which of the teary-eyed expressions in his general grab-bag of sadness he'll use to manipulate me the next time I deny him a piece of candy or say no when he suggests we mainline sugar into his veins for breakfast.
This morning, he involved me in this little game. I'd called him into our bathroom vanity area to brush his teeth, which he half-heartedly didn't want to do. I say half-heartedly because, as soon as he saw that big 'ol mirror with that sort of torqued off little tow-headed boy looking back at him, he decided to really turn on the waterworks. He buried his head against my stomach and began the usual routine of having his little come-apart.
"Are we trying out a new crying jag?" I asked.
"YES," he pouted.
"How's slumping against my belly working out for you? Do you think it lends authenticity to your plight?"
He narrowed his eyes and gave me a crusty eyeballed look.
"No, seriously, why don't I cup your head with my hand? It might help even more ... oh wait, that's blocking your face, and we can't do that, can we? It totally takes away from your performance, doesn't it?"
Pause. Further narrowing of eyes ..."Yes." Very small, distrusting voice. Small whimper.
"Kid, that was an Oscar-worthy performance. Congratulations ... Shall we brush your teeth now?"
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