Then it is time for school pickup.
Godzilla decide’s he wants a haircut. No time this evening (meaning, I can’t be arsed tonight and have lots of other stuff to do), and say so. Cearly overtired and/or just not happy about not getting his own way, he contests, and contests and I explain and explain and finally he melts down completely, tantrum style.
I wander on, letting him know he’d be left behind if he continued (hoping or threatening, I’m not quite sure, but anyhoo) and he lagged further and further behind.
Monkey Boy, suddenly Best Behaved Child In The World, comments that Godzilla would have to cross the road on his own if he didn’t hurry up. Yes, apparently I need a running commentary as well.
I state that Godzilla would have to deal with and mumble something about bloody little shits under my breath, convinced Monkey Boy couldn’t hear, as only minutes before I’d had to explain to him, just short of yelly voice, that he was to shut up and leave his brother alone.
“Um mah! You swore! Can I swear?”
“NO!” realising there is also little to no point in my asking how he heard this and nothing else I’d said in the last 10 minutes.
“That’s not fair. You get to swear more than I do. I should be allowed to swear more than I do!”