When Luck Calls, Answer

Last night, after an especially horrific day with Aimee, I walked into the guest room and found Aimee with her back to me. She spun around and shot me a sheepish smile. I just looked at her, because her facial expression told me she was up to something naughty. I couldn’t figure out what, though, so I just kept on staring at her.

“What?” she asked, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

I raised an eyebrow and continued my gaze.

“What?” she said, more urgently.

“You tell me, ‘what’,” I said.

“Time out?” she asked.

“Yep,” I said, not having a clue as to why she would ask to be put in one. But I figured if she thought she was worthy of punishment, I wasn’t going to stop her.

“Aw, man!” she said, and walked over to the steps. I had to hide my face because I couldn’t believe my parenting fortune. After a few minutes, she said, “Mom, I’m waiting.” (Normally I set the timer for a time out but this time I thought I’d just let her ride it out.)

“Okay,” I said. “Why were you in a time out?”

“Because I wasn’t behaving,” she said.

“Um-hmm," I said. "But what specifically were you doing?”

“I was scraping the pencil against the window,” she said.

“And why is that bad?” I asked, feeling guilty because normally I wouldn’t give a time out for something so benign. I usually save time outs for egregious behavior, such as hitting or talking badly to me (such as when she called me “A very stupid Mommy,” yesterday).

“Because it’s not respectful,” she said, only it sounded more like “restepful.”

I eyed her a minute and she said, “Sorry.”

“Okay, I accept your apology,” I said, arms extended. “Come give me a hug.” She stood up and squeezed me tightly, then bounded up the stairs.

Mission accomplished, I thought.