Did You Say Pet Rock or Pet Mock, as in this kid is totally mocking me with that rock he's carrying

Like most young children, I remember often facing the unjust oppression of my fun-hating parents. Mom would sternly shake her head no to my pleas for six or seven other girls to invade our house after she'd worked 12 or 14 hours in the beauty shop in our garage and I was completely dumbfounded by her blind tyranny.
And when these moments would pop up, overcome with frustration at my unfair treatment, I would dart behind an open door and the wall and softly whisper some foul tongue lashing to my otherwise unsuspecting mother. I revealed in the genius of my cursing revenge. You see, not only did I get to fling a few cuss words at the iron-fisted dictator running our household, but I also got off scott free because my angry words went totally undetected behind my wedge of wooden secrecy.
I thought of my little tempter tantrums this week as my oldest boy Ridge picked up a new habit. Now, I've known for a long time that the day would come with that my cooing babies would slowly start morphing into clever little wise asses who lament me for ruining their good time. While I'm sure this recent incident wasn't the first time my first born mulled over what a stick in the freakin' mud that his mother is, this is the first time that he carried on a conversation about my motherly injustices right in front of me.
To be clear, this discussion was not with another person. Oh no, it was with his pet rock. First of all, I have no damn clue where he got the idea for a pet rock in the first place. I don't know if he saw it on a movie or if one of his friends planted this notion, but its there nonetheless.
Secondly, I feel like calling the softball-sized pebble a "pet" rock is a better misleading. I think we should dub it his "psychiatrist" rock or something along those lines. You see, just like the four walls of a mental health professional's office, Ridge really feels like when he's with his pet rock, he's in the "safe zone," that he can say anything to the rock without fear of being in trouble. If he is excited, he tells the rock. If he is sad, he tells the rock. And, if he is pissed off at his killjoy mother, he most definitely tells the damn rock.
On Sunday afternoon, I took the boys to my cousin's son's birthday party. Like all good parents who want to fork out an insane amount of money and do an even more insane amount of work, my cousin Krista had a yard freakin' full of rides and concessions nothing short of some circus midway. Ridge and Rolan were in little kid heaven. They jumped on the bounce house and stuffed their mouths full of cotton candy. They hit baseballs and cruised the yard in a Power Wheels Mustang. After a couple hours of birthday party joy, I gathered the boys' scattered belongings and prepared them for the trip home. My youngest, Rolan, wasn't just eager to leave his sugar-coated dream, but he also didn't drag the deal into some episode for the baby books. The same cannot be said for his big brother Ridge.
At first Ridge argued his case for staying just a bit longer like some seasoned pro arguing Constitutional law before the Supreme Court. When that didn't work, he whipped out the red face and tears and, lastly, begging. He realized as I buckled him into his car seat that this, leaving the birthday party, was in fact going to happen. He cried for a few months, whimpered two or three good times and then dried up the tears. After a few moments of silence, I assumed he had accepted his fate of an uneventful night with his boring parents and pain in the ass brother. Wrong.
Just we hit the highway, he and his pet rock began discussing the enormous pile of bullshit they had just been subjected to. It went something like this here:

Ridge asks the rock, "Are you sad that you had to leave the party, Rock?"

Ridge replying for the rock, "Yes, Ridge, I wanted to stay at the party but your mom is being mean and won't let me play."

Ridge to the rock, "All our friends get to stay and play and their mommy isn't mean."

Ridge for the rock, "I want to keep playing with our friends, Ridge."

Ridge to the rock, "Are you mad that you can't play?"

Ridge for the rock, "It is bullshit."

Naturally, that's just a small excerpt from the witty back-and-forth between my son and his rock, which clearly was thinking for itself and not being the mouthpiece for my child.The rallied for at least five miles about how I just murdered fun. Every few minutes I would remind Ridge that he needed to be nice and, spoken like a true smart ass, he would point out that he wasn't the one lobbing in these sharp complaints. It was the rock, the hard-partying, good time rock. As I kicked myself for playing into being outsmarted by a four-year-old, my childhood trips to the wedge of wall and door ran through my mind. I wish I would've come up with the cussing pet rock. At least then someone would have known I was pissed.

On a different note, Ridge had his Rainbow Lane program tonight. I will post photos tomorrow, or at least I plan on it. Those of you who are regular readers, go ahead and remind me. LOVE!