Had I not been the target, Boots’ backyard baseball performance yesterday would have been hilarious.

Big Guy and I were playing catch while Boots sulked inside with his Thomas DVD. After about 15 minutes, the game sounded like so much fun that Boots couldn’t resist venturing out.

“I want to play!” he smiled.

“OK, go get your glove.”

“I don’t want glub. Want to catch like this,” he said, cupping his hands in front of him.

We lucked out on the first half dozen tosses – he actually managed to corral the baseball. Then disaster struck, and he dropped the next few. Which, of course, was my fault.

“You’re MEAN! You don’t throw so I can catch it. I’m mad at  you!” he sulked before plopping his butt to the grass, legs criss-cross applesauce, arms across his chest, chin lifted slightly and lips jutting out.

He stayed that way until it was his turn again. He missed the ball and replayed the pout. “You’re just a bad thrower, Mommy!” he accused. Which is true, but it really wasn’t my fault he was dropping the ball.

As tantrums go, the new technique is far milder than the screaming it replaced, though he’s still fond of jumping up and down to protest not getting his way.

As performances go, it’s far more creative than the injuries Big Guy used to fake. Summoning tears on command is not much of a feat. Getting huffy and figuring a way to pin the blame on someone else – now, that’s talent.

Boots’ performance earlier in the day was even better. We’d left him with his grandmother so Big Guy and I could shop for a birthday present. Oh, the injustice!

For the next hour, no matter what my mother-in-law said, it drew the same response: “I’m a soldier. I’m not listening to you.”

I can’t wait until he pulls that one on Dad, who knows what happens when soldiers don’t listen. Extra push-ups for you, son.

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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