I wish someone would come videotape a weekday morning at my house with me and my 7-year-old. I'd like to have it on tape for him to see as an adult. Partly because it's hilarious, and partly because whatever comes up on the therapist's couch when he's older would be completely offset by the fact that he would see how, in these early years, Mommy's role is pretty much a long-suffering maidservant (with an attitude).
At seven, he still gets a sippy cup of warmed ovaltine every morning, which he slurps with his blankie in front of cartoons. If the ovaltine does not arrive promptly enough, the Little Prince shouts loudly, "MOM!!!!!!! Chocolate milk!!!!!!!!"
So this morning, he impressed me enormously by being somewhat proactive and getting himself dressed and packing up his backpack without my nagging him. The more typical scenario is that I instruct him through every, painstaking step required to complete the morning tasks. ("Finish eating your breakfast," "dishes to the sink," "brush your teeth and hair," "go get dressed," etc., etc.... all of this usually belted out from the bathroom, sometimes over the sound of my hair dryer.)
I was so proud of him, I mean, ridiculously proud. Like, almost teary-eyed.
But then there was this part: I'm in the shower and he comes in the bathroom to pee. It's just the two of us, so we don't have a whole lot of bathroom boundaries yet. So I peek around the door at him and see that, as usual, he has not lifted up the toilet seat. So I tell him, as usual, that he will be required to wipe off the seat when he's finished. I peek around again a minute later and see him wiping off the seat .... with his pajama-covered knee. The joys of boys.