He says he's not going to Hebrew School ... and waits for a response, lolling idly on the sofa. We ignore.
A few minutes later, he refuses to come put on his rain boots. I give up on those -- that's an argument I can afford to lose -- and coax him into his room, where I put him in a cozy sweater and rain jacket.
A few minutes later, at the door, it's "I hate this day," and "I'm not going." This time, he loses a sticker on his ready-for-school-on-time chart, and stickers mean something: once you earn 20, you get a dollar to put in your piggy bank and save up for toys.
He throws a mini-tantrum. Then, when Dad gets stern, he starts to laugh.
Dad has had it. So have I. It's been testing, testing, testing ever since he's been awake, and it's not even 9 a.m.
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