Deuce just walked in the kitchen as I'm desperately attempting to get the coffee into the cup while managing a sinus headache the size of China and announced, "If you don't get me a fruit rollup, I'm gonna smack you in the face."
So I sent him to his room.
He cried his broken-hearted, I-don't-have-a-friend-in-the-world-and-everyone-hates-me cry for about five minutes.
Sniffling, he quietly shuffled back into the living room with his eyes red and swollen and snot running down his face. I'm gingerly sipping my little cup of cinnamon-flavored heaven and pretending I'm elsewhere.
Deuce: "Momma, I'm sorry."
Me: "That is not nice to speak to your mother like that. That made me really sad, Deuce."
Deuce: "I'm weawwwy sorry, momma."
Me: "That was very disrespectful to speak to anyone like that but especially so to someone who you depend on for survival.
Deuce: "But I said I'm sorry."
Me: "Do you understand what you said that made me so sad?"
Deuce: "Yes, I should have said please."
Obviously, I'm making progress here.