Sometimes, Barak has a hard day. A hard day means lots of counting, lots of misbehaving, lots of Imma mentally counting to ten, lots of time outs. At night, when I'm putting the kids to bed, I'll ask him if he had a good day or a hard day. Usually, even if he had a good day, he'll say he had a hard day. Then he'll sigh an age-old sigh and tell me wearily, "I don't like having a hard time."
Yeah, well, Imma doesn't like it either.
I could give a recap of the day, but I'd rather just let it be water under the bridge. Three and a half is the hardest, right? Right? Right? (Don't start telling me about the teenage years. I'm not even thinking about that yet.)