Long day.

Long day after a long night after a long day after a long night. Tired. Very tired.

Not in mood tonight to negotiate with Charlie when he throws a minor tantrum because it's shower time.

Angry dad voice comes out. I hate my angry dad voice. I hate using it on any of my kids, but I'm especially regretful after the fact with Charlie.

Charlie whips his head back on to the couch and then lays face down on the floor. I've asked him five times now to come up with me for a shower.

"Charlie! Get. Upstairs. Now!"

He crawls upstairs slowly on hands and knees like a weak desert wanderer searching for water. "Can't," he moans. "I'm so tired."

I'm certain he'd be up the stairs like a leopard if said let's play a video game.

"Charlie! Now!"

The voice in my head tells me he can't be low, you just tested him. Don't fall for it. He's just being a 5 year old not getting his way.

Charlie is red in the face as he flaps his arms and legs violently, trying to remove his clothes like a contortionist attempting to escape from a straightjacket.

I sit and watch him work himself into a little frenzy.

He stands, defiantly letting the pump dangle to the floor. The weight of the pump pulling on his site is like fingernails on a chalkboard to me.

"Charlie! Pick up your pump!"

"Charlie! Pick up your pump!"

He cries.

He sits back down to remove his blue rocket ship underpants which now have tiny round blood stains like meteors. Similar to his soccer underpants which now have little red soccer balls or his truck underpants which now have red traffic lights.

"Charlie! Don't drag your pump!

"Charlie!

Standing cold and naked with his pump in hand is a sad sight.

He steps into the shower and I scrub and scrub and scrub his war-torn bottom until I get the black skid-marked tape residue to finally come off.

I hang my head ,

and the regret sets in.