ERASED

I am not a passive-aggressive person.  Neither is my husband.  We don't engage in the silent treatment.  Neither one of us is smart enough to be snarky.  We don't roll our eyes behind backs or act ambiguously towards people.  If we love you, you know it.  If we don't, we'll simply try to push you down a flight of stairs to avoid any confusion.

One of the natural consequences of being the type of people who wear their emotions on their sleeves is the yelling.  We are definitely not a quiet bunch.  We yell when we are happy, angry, sad, or confused.  Tack on some cuss word and you get the general idea.  Our house is definitely not a place for the faint of heart. 

Yet, it is awesome for the hard of hearing.

Then there is Jack.  Jack is not a loud child.  He hides his emotions better than most poker players.  Only a few skilled family members can discern whether he is blissfully happy or plotting your death. 

He is tricky, that kid.

So when Jack got in trouble for refusing to put away his stuff for the 5th day in a row, there were consequences.  He was not allowed to attend the Mt. Carmel vs. St. Rita state football play-off game with his father and brothers.  The decree was handed down Friday morning.

Then Jack showed up Friday afternoon with his weekly letter home:

If I had just skimmed over the letter like I usually do, I would have missed Mr. Passive-Aggressive's little dig at mom.  See it?

The letter is addressed to "Dad."

And hidden under that word is "Mom." 

But it is erased. 

And written over.

That's right.

My kid erased me.

My husband laughed his ass off at the letter and then advised Jack that he was only digging himself a deeper hole with the woman who holds the keys to his happiness in her hands.

And Joe was right.

While the rest of the family cheered on an exciting Mt. Carmel victory that night, Jack and I headed to Menards.  For three hours.  Picking out extension cords and outlet covers. 

Since then, I asked Jack what happens when he doesn't listen to mommy and erases her name.  He responded:

"We go to Menards.  For, like, EVER."

Chinese water torture doesn't hold a candle to my methods.