Seth sits on the potty and puts his face in his hands, dejected.
“What’s wrong, buddy?”
His shoulders slump and he looks up at me with the saddest face. His dark eyes a striking contrast to his blond hair.
“I’m having a hard time.” He says. He looks down again and his shoulders droop even further.
“With what? What happened?” I ask, taking a seat on the bathroom stool.
“First,” he sighs big, “you said I was a bad sport.”
Oh God. Did I say he was a bad sport?
Just a couple of hours ago.
He’s at the age where he wants to compete in everything, but if he doesn’t win, he throws a fit. We were in the basement, riding bikes, and he wanted to race, but when I lapped him (here's your visual, me on Riley’s tiny bike, complete with training wheels) he got hysterical.
“Seth, you’re a bad sport.”
I really said it.
“Then my helmet fell off, and when I tried to get it, I tipped over.”
Yes, he did. It's all true.
“Anything else?” I ask.
He shrugs. Taps. Flushes. Washes his hands.
“Seth, you’re not a bad sport, okay? Mommy shouldn't have said that. You’re just little and you're still learning to be a good sport. That’s all. I’m so sorry."
He falls into my arms and we sit like that on the bathroom floor for a long time.
I can’t get the look in his eyes out of my head.