So the new PC arrived. Its still sitting in boxes left casually in my kitchen. Logan thinks its a nice home for his juice box. ACK!
Ahh, but I wander off topic again.
I explained to my Man-boy that we had to wait around the house today until Mr. Brown-truck arrived. In response, he asked his favorite question, "Why?" And so, I, perhaps unwisely, explained that we had bought a new computer. Logan is aware that this one is on its last leg. He gets as frustrated as I do when it crashes in the middle of one his games or when we're trying to see who can send the smiley on IM faster - him or Grandma. He was very happy with the prospect of a new PC.
And so I continued on with the plan. "When the new one is all hooked up and good to go, we're going to take everything off the old one and put back on just some of the stuff. The stuff you play with. Its going to be YOUR computer!" Well that just put him on a cloud.
Mr Browntruck finally arrived around noon-ish. I ran down through the garage to sign for the packages and let him dump the three boxes next to the Mommyvan. (Our front steps still a crumbled mess since the contractor is still to busy to start the job. ACK!) Logan was yelling through the glass door "Is that my computer?!"
Yes, "my" computer is what he said and it wasn't a mistake. I sat at this heap-o-crud to reply to some work emails and Logan says to me, after a deep pensive sigh, "I don't want this computer. No. I don't like it. Its not mine."
"You don't want a computer? Well, ok, but honey, you can't be on mine when I need it for work." I told him, reminding him of a constant discussion we have.
"I want a computer," he said as if I had rocks in my head. "I just don't want THAT computer." And I, perhaps foolishly, asked him which one he wanted.
He took my hand. He led me from the office/sunroom/playroom to the kitchen. He pointed to the boxes marked DELL in bright blue. "I want that one. That one is mine. That one in there is yours."
"Ahh, so don't think so little man." I said without catching myself before 'little' crept out. He's still so offended that anyone could consider his three-year old self to be little.
And then he, in his best impression of a teenager voice, said "Oh Mom. I don't want that old one. Its too broken. I want the nice good one. You can have the yucky one."
Hmm. Yeah right. To borrow a phrase from my youth - NOT!