Yesterday, when the kids were supposed to be cleaning their playroom, the seven-year old started picking on his younger brother. At first, it was minor stuff, nothing we needed to get involved in. As it escalated, though, our hand was forced.

First came the warnings, then the more serious warnings, finally, the horrible judgement: “Okay, we warned you. Now you have to clean it up all by yourself.”

The big guy collapsed under the terrible weight of justice. He rarely tantrums, but he started coming awfully close to that. We did what any good parent would do: we closed the door and went to the family room. He quieted down after a while, and we heard the sounds of cleaning.

Then I watched his little brother walk over to the door and open it.

“Oh,” the little guy said.

“What?” his brother answered, still angry.

“You missed the dragon hat. Don’t forget the dragon hat. It’s right there on the floor.”

“AAAGGGHHH!  GET OUT! GET OUT RIGHT NOW!”

The little guy walked back through the den, smiling.

I probably should have said something to him, but all my energy was being spent on not laughing.