Earlier this week, the boy insisted that we work on a puzzle. He selected a 1000 piece behemoth with a picture of two wolves laying in a field of snow, surrounded by mountains covered with pine trees, and the sun setting in an overcast sky. All of the puzzle pieces were either white, pink, black, or gray.
After what seemed like eternity, we managed to assemble the edge of the puzzle. Now for the painstakingly difficult job of placing the remaining zillion pieces. Within five minutes, the boy was shouting about how much he hated "this stupid puzzle." He is a true champion of patience an perseverance... a trait he gets from his father.
To avert any additional outbursts, I quietly packed the puzzle back into the box.
Tonight as I was tucking the little man into bed, he brought up the delightful experience we had working on the wolf puzzle. He was more than happy to remind me how terrible it was. In his own words...
"It's like Hi! I'm a puzzle and I am supposed to be fun. Look, here's a puzzle piece... and here's another one that looks just like it. Maybe they fit together. But NO-O-O. There's a hundred more that look just like it. Good luck figuring out how it goes together."
As I was relaying this story to my hubby, his immediate response was, "I hate puzzles." The apple hasn't fallen too far from that tree.
1 comment(s). Leave yours!:
I was expecting you to say "but NO, they all looking the F--ing same. F--ing puzzle." Something like that. Then we would be able to really talk about apples and trees.
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