Sam is sorry

“Mommy is nice

Daddy is nice

A kiss on your cheek.”

Most watching right now would be touched by Sam’s show of affection as he carefully places his hands on my shoulders and gently bends down to kiss my left cheek and then my right.  They may think me harsh for ignoring his sweet show of affection. He looks so very earnest and sincere.

Today Sam is contrite. He desperately wants to repent for his earlier behavior. He also wants his iPod. Sam knows the consequence for inappropriate behavior is the loss of one of his precious electronic devices. Most days that is reason enough to control his impulses. Today, those impulses overpowered him and his iPod privileges have been revoked.

So instead of trying to elude me and escape into his world of YouTube reruns, Sam follows me about the house like a lovesick puppy. He angles for sympathy and absolution. He figures if he plays it right, he’ll get his iPod back.

I watch him, expressionless as he places his hands on my shoulders again. Knowing the stakes are high he looks deeply into my eyes saying:

“Mommy is nice.

Daddy is nice.

A kiss on your cheek.”

A girl could get lost in those eyes, I think as he bends down to kiss both my cheeks for the second time. He asks hopefully, “iPod?”  “No, Sam,” I answer. “No iPod.” I remind him of his recent infraction as I withhold the affection he craves. He accepts his fate. Crest fallen, he wanders off. For a few minutes anyway.

But Sam isn’t one to give up; he tries anew:

“Mommy is nice.

Daddy is nice.

A kiss on your cheek.”

There is more cheek kissing, followed by a plea for a big hug. I am impressed with his perseverance. I remind myself it is imperative for Sam to understand the consequences. One day he will live with people who may not be so forgiving. He must learn.

Sam is unwavering in his quest for exoneration: 

“Mommy is nice.

Daddy is nice.

A kiss on your cheek.”

He ups the ante by adding more words to his kisses, “So sorry Mommy. Sorry Daddy.” Certain those are the magic words, he pauses briefly and adds, “iPod?” “No.” I respond.

Sam recites the rules of behavior. I acknowledge the correctness of his statement. He looks up somewhat expectantly, “iPod?” “If you are good, you can have the iPod back tomorrow” I respond. Sam looks despondent. I may as well have said one hundred years.

He also makes it clear I have responded incorrectly and tries once again:

“Mommy is nice.

Daddy is nice.

A kiss on your cheek.”

By now my cheeks have been kissed so many times I begin to think I am in a very bad European film.

As I watch his very sad face, I wish self control was less challenging for Sam. I wish for a better way to impress upon Sam the importance of appropriate behavior.  

And then I mentally prepare for a very long night. Because it will be very hard not to cave under the pressure of all those heartfelt kisses. I’m only human, you know. 


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