Evan’s new favorite phrase is “I’m sorry.” He must say it several dozen times a day.
I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!
You would think this a good thing, right? We’re teaching him manners and he is one polite three year old.
Except, it’s awful. Suddenly, he thinks he can do anything he pleases and simply apologize for it should something go awry.
Last week, he intentionally dumped my iPhone into a glass of water. I’m sorry, he uttered, smiling the whole time.
A few days ago, he threw a package of light bulbs onto the counter, shattering them into a billion pieces, a million of which landed in the dinner I was making and needed to chuck down the disposal. I’m sorry, he sung, not looking the least bit remorseful.
The water pooling outside of the shower. The makeup compact he shattered. The lotion he dumped all over the counter. The stickers he decorated the wall with. The foot that tripped his sister. The paint that he chose to paint himself with. The puddle that begged to be jumped in.
I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!
So am I.
That he ever learned the damn phrase.