Yesterday, early in the morning when we were getting ready for the day, the oldest boy realized he had forgotten his bag. "Mom, did you see my bag?" he asks as he storms around the total of our less than 300 square feet.
"No, bud. Is it in the truck?" I ask in reply. He had packed his things the night before the rest of us and then helped his dad get the camper ready.
Now, he stomped around, growling at everyone, obviously aggravated with himself and anyone who dared attempt to communicate. He was showing every stereotypical bit of his fifteen year old-ness.
"It's not the end of the world. We'll go get some clothes before we go to the museum. There's a WalMart in town," I try to sooth him with a solution.
"I'm NOT wearing WalMart clothes!!" he raises his voice in frustration at the proposition, on the verge of a toddler-like temper tantrum. He is steaming.
I am not having it for a second. "You will wear whatever I give you to wear. Don't be ungrateful and stop with the tantrum," I answer in my own solid don't-mess-with-me tone. "Turn down the angst, pronto."
We all load in the truck on our way to the the museum with D in his stained, patched jeans and day old hoodie. We stop at the WalMart in town where I force him to try on four pairs of pants against his will. He finds three pair that will get him through the rest of our stay. We grab other necessary items and head back to the waiting truck.
He thanks us for stopping to getting him something to wear. By the end the night, he tells us how comfy these jeans are and how he might want another pair.