Yesterday’s post had a picture that garnered several questions and comments.
That is indeed my child climbing on a table with his pants around his ankles. These pants were probably the most difficult part of our layover in Minneapolis (which by the way has a lovely airport.) I completely forgot to put Justus’ belt in the diaper bag when we left at the crack of dawn Saturday morning. We managed to get through DFW without incident but by lunchtime they were quite literally falling off of him.
As his mother my first instinct was to pull up his pants.
Silly me. What was I thinking?
When I reached down and pulled up his pants, he stuck out his hand, yelled, “No!” and promptly pulled them back down. This happened three or four times before I lost my patience and sent him to timeout. Yes, at the airport. I’m a firm believer that everywhere has a viable timeout spot. Friends who dine with us have seen me put my son in timeout at a variety of restaurants. We’ve had timeouts at church, at the grocery store, at the park, and of course at home. And now, the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, concourse D.
He was, as usual, DEVASTATED by being put in timeout. It took everything in me not to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. The people in chairs near him were not as restrained and proceeded to laugh and smirk. When the timeout was over, we had our usual post-punishment talk about why he was put in timeout and how it is important to listen and obey, followed by a hug. We then pulled up and rolled his pants and headed off to play, me wearing his sister (who had watched the entire scene unfold nonchalantly) and holding his tiny hand.