We wouldn't let Conor download a song on my sister's computer, and you'd have thought we cut off his right nut, what with the tears and the sobs and the gnashing and wailing. Caterwauling, even. We got out of there by the skin of our teeth and the ride home was, um, unpleasant.
But still, he stayed on Level 3. By some miracle, he did.
When we got home, I took him upstairs to change his clothes after some dinner. He started weeping and sobbing again.
"Want some medicine!" he wailed.
"Why do you want medicine, Conor?" I asked. "What's wrong, honey?"
Maybe he's sick?
"Want some medicine to make the bad behavior go away!" he sobbed and sobbed.
"You don't need medicine, honey, you can do it on your own. You're doing great staying on Level 3," I encouraged. And he was, I could tell he was working really, really hard to restrain himself.
But what I wanted to say was--
"We all want that, sweetie. We all want a pill that will make bad behavior go away."
Wouldn't that be nice?