Stalin's Revenge

Michael is eight. He's funny. He's artistic. And he has every single quality I can't stand in my soon-to-be-ex.

Consider a recent example. Michael called me from his father's to tell me about his weekend. They went goose hunting. I won't describe in detail the level of moral opposition I hold for this practice, but suffice it to say, I'm not a fan.

"Me and Daddy? We shot two geese yesterday!" Great.

"And Mummy? Me and Daddy got really mad at the first one cause we had to shoot it three times and then shake it around by the neck until it died." What do you say to this? "That's nice, honey. Can you pass me that box of wine over there?"

He is stubborn. Despite the clothes I buy him from Gap Kids, he wears unfashionably narrow jeans because he doesn't like cargo pants. He steadfastly refuses to read Lemony Snicket because "everybody reads that." When he gets himself a drink, he uses a sippy cup because he knows it annoys me, and he finds that funny.

Each of these exact situations came up when I was with my ex. In his case, it was regular Gap, Stephen King, and beer steins, respectively.

Either my ex is teaching him how to annoy me or these traits are actually genetic. I don't know which one upsets me more.