Rock On, Little Dude

I was a very bad kid growing up, sometimes.  I would break into the flour, and make it "snow" in the kitchen.  I would hide in clothing racks, wait for my mother to have a nervous breakdown, and then burst out shouting "Peekaboo!".  And, after a full day of misbehaving, when my mom would get fed up with me and try to get me to listen, I would shout (at the top of my lungs) "No mummy!  Noooo!  I'll be good!  I'll be good!  Please don't hit me again!"

My mother, who of course never hit me in her entire life, would go beat red when everyone stared at her like a monster.  Even though I'd spent the entire day being a rat bastard.  And then she'd curl up within herself, and treat me like a little prince.  At least, until no one was looking.

...this was all when I was three years old.  I was a pretty awesome kid, right?  Smart, too.

I bring this up because, today, I saw a little guy, about three years old, who started screaming at the top of his lungs, in the mall food court.  And I mean, screaming.  Beat red, and shouting stuff like "Don't hit me!  I hate you!  You're mean!" and all sorts of things.  Throwing stuff at his mother.  And generally making her look like the worst mum in the world. 

The second she bought him a few timbits, though, he shut right up, and was the world's happiest camper. 

I think a lot of people were looking down on the mother (and rightfully so, I think).  But I wonder how many people realize that kid knew exactly what he was doing.  Rock on, little dude. 

Rock on.