Splitting hairs

Brian had a horrible morning yesterday. Really, really horrible. I don't know what set him off, but suddenly all the anger and frustration that could possibly reside in a five year old boy was directed at me. During the car ride on the way to day care, I was told repeatedly how much he hated me.

How he never loved me.

How he would never love me.

How he would always hate me.

~Insert your own variations on the theme here - I'm sure you get the idea~

I calmly (and very Zen Mom-ly [Thanks, Molly!]) told him after each of these statements that I loved him, and would always love him, and nothing he could say or do would make me stop loving him. All of which is true.

But each of these statements was accompanied by kicking my seat, my arm, the middle console of the car (but mostly my arm and my seat), harder and harder and harder. Each of those kicks made it harder and harder to add the "or do" part of the above statement.

At one point, I reached back, and grabbed his ankle, and held it still. (And this is where Zen Mom disappeared for a few minutes). "STOP PUSHING MY BUTTONS" I said through clenched teeth.

"I'm NOT!" he said, as he struggled to kick my arm again.

"YOU ARE!" I replied.

"No, I'm not." He said it more firmly this time, and then explained himself. "I'm kicking you, Mom, there's a difference."

Oy. More irrefutable logic.