Him: Where is my shaver?
Me (thinking "when did my 15 year old begin needing a shaver and why did my husband buy him one?): I don't touch your stuff.
Him: Where IS my SHAVer?
Me: I don't touch your stuff. (thinking: and I certainly don't clean your bathroom, that is what I pay "A Maid for a Day" big bucks to do).
Big banging and slamming comes from vicinity of bathroom.
Him (noticibly agitated and he stomps in the room, gesturing and pointing to his toiletries case): I put it right here in the bottom of my bag.
Me (thinking: we've been away for 2 days, your bag was with you, I cleaned up the hotel and nothing was left behind and besides, you didn't use the shaver there anyway and WHEN did you get to be old enough to shave?): I don't touch your stuff. Ask the Other Person that lives in this house.
Knowing the dog wouldn't be the one he asked. And observing that he is far too annoyed to go ask Dad....
I say nothing more.
Him (with annoyed relief): I hate it when people move my stuff.
I remain silent, feeling somehow emotionally responsible for someone else's actions, and thinking: I don't touch your stuff for this very reason. I'd move it and wouldn't remember where I moved it. I can't even keep track of my own razor.
Him: I'm going to sleep now mom.
Him: I'm going to listen to some music.
Him: Is that okay?
Me: Yes. (Thinking: why on earth are you asking if it's okay to do something you've done every night for the past year since I got you that ipod?)
Him: I love you.
Me: absentmindedly silent
Him (more insistently): Mom? I love you.
Me (thinking: wow): I love you too - sleep tight.
Him: Thanks for taking us to Castle. It was epic.
Me: You're welcome. Good night.
Wonder if he's still awake and might like a backrub....