He's got a mouth, that one.

I sent Ian to bed, after having let him stay up extra late to finish a movie. Thirty seconds later, I ascended the stairs to retrieve some clothes hangers, and from the shadows of his bedroom, I heard him say, "Mom. I can't fall asleep."

"You just got in bed, you nutcase. Give it some time."
"But I get scared."

At this, I stopped and backed up, standing in his doorway.

"What do you mean you get scared? You've never been scared before."
(Ian, in fact, is the one who has always insisted on his room being completely dark at night.)

"I just keep thinking about bad things. Every night, they just pop in my head, and I can't get 'em out."
"Scary things?"
"No. Not really scary, just bad things."

"Ahh. That used to happen to Dani when she was your age. You know what worked for her?"
"What?"
"Prayer."
"Praying never works for me. I've tried it before, and it doesn't work."

By this time, I'd made my way to his bedside, and I sat down on the edge of it and rubbed his back.

"Aw, Ian. Yes it does! Why don't you believe in prayer?"

"I dunno."

"Do you believe in God?"

Ian sat up and snarled his lip at me. "That was a dumb question to ask. Of course the answer is yes."

I caught myself before I full out laughed, but not before I let a giggle escape. We prayed, and then I went downstairs to tell Darren how proud I was of our youngest kid for having the guts to tell me I'd asked a dumb question. Truly, I offended him! "He's bold," I bragged. "I love that about him. He's SO not afraid to tell me like it is."

The next morning, after mounting frustration at him for not being able to find his shoes (AGAIN), which he had only taken off 12 hours before, I snapped. I yelled, "If you'd take care of your THINGS, then they wouldn't get LOST all the time! You don't take care of ANYthing!!!!"

He wrinkled his nose, furrowed his brow, tucked his chin, glared at me out the top of his eyes, and yelled right back: "Well if YOU weren't so MEAN, maybe I WOULD take care of my stuff!!"

"Come here for your spanking," I said. "You don't get to talk to me like that."

He came. I swatted his butt once with my hand.

I found his shoes, and as he put them on, I called Darren at work. "You know how last night I was so proud of Ian for telling me what he really thought? Well, I'm over it."

It's a fine line, you know, between knowing when it's okay to tell your Mom what you really think and sensing when to keep your trap shut. I hope he learns sooner than later!