Lest you somehow have the impression that all is smooth sailing around our home, I must share this little story of woe. Yesterday afternoon a 100 year old footstool became a casualty of the Storyteller's imagination. How can a sweet little piece of furniture survive 100 years, but not our 7 year old son? It's simply this. He was imagining he was King Herod and that he was having the worst temper tantrum of his life because the Magi didn't tell him how to find the baby who would be King. He picked up the footstool and threw it down - and that is the end of a hand carved cherry wood footstool that has been in my husbands family forever. Sigh!
Were there tears? Oh yes! Was there discipline? Uh huh! Consequences? Of course! I think we have a little boy who will never throw a piece of furniture again - at least I hope so.
After our 'loving discipline' The Storyteller and I had a hug and he told me how sorry he was. We went on with the day. At bedtime I gave him another big hug and told him how much I loved him even though I wasn't happy with what he had done. He let out a big sigh and said, "I've been waiting to hear those words all day Mama!"