I've been trying extra hard to be a good mother. So that means making sure to read every night to the boys. It does not go well. Mac wants only one story, The Boy Who was Followed Home. Then he has to talk about how unfortunate his life is as he, being homeschooled, is not presented with the opportunity to be followed home from school by any assortment animals.
X-Man has his own approach. He likes me to read him his Lightening McQueen story. He loves both the race car and Mater. And he knows the story. The problem is, I don't. It's not that I can't read. It's that X-Man has clearly told himself a story, narrated by the pictures. When I try to read the words, he gets annoyed. And frustrated. He'll take the book from my hands, narrate the story, rather unintelligibly I'm afraid, and hand the book back to me. He has a look of expectation as I begin again. And do it wrong again. After grabbing the book a few more times, he settles himself into my lap and retells the story more emphatically. Again, I fail to tell the story correctly, or, sadly, understand his story. Eventually, he took my fingers in his hand and pointed them emphatically at both cars, more incoherent babbling and jabbing. And frustration.
You might think the solution would be to read a different book. That is entirely unacceptable however. I am to read the story he has in his mind to him. It's not working.
I also learned that not one but two children can scream during an hour long car trip through rush hour traffic and still not sleep that night. And that it is difficult to drive one handed, while holding a phone that is playing NetFlix. I guess complaining about the lack of streaming capabilities during a rush hour drive might just be first world of me, but man, it was chaos as I have never experienced it. And that, folks, is saying something.