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Most of the time, I appreciate the fact that my six-year-old can do so much for himself. He can dress himself! He can tie his own shoes! He can brush his own teeth, and even floss his own teeth! (I'm so proud!) But there are moments, when he's dawdling maddeningly or totally spacing out in the middle of a task and we need to leave in three minutes that I long for the days when I just put his damn shoes and socks on for him and we got the hell out the door in a (relatively) timely manner.

Yesterday was one of those days. We had somewhere to be, and while my Old Man and I got ourselves and Roo ready, we were expecting O. to be getting himself ready. But he was spacing out, then putting his pants on over his jammy pants, then spacing out, then dawdling, then taking a bajillion years to tie his shoes. The whole while his dad and I were advising him and verbally prodding him, a duet of parental patter that grew increasingly shrill as the minutes toward our desired time of departure ticked ever closer.

Struggling with his shoelaces while we tried to talk him through the process, O. finally just stopped altogether, screwed up his face in annoyance, and with measured emphasis said:

"Stop commenting on my actions!"

My Old Man and I just looked at each other, dumbstruck, in a mix of amusement and sudden self-awareness. We stopped commenting on O's actions, for the moment. But I thought to myself Oh my young dear, I'm afraid we're going to be "commenting on your actions" for the next fifteen years or so.

I just hope I remember to stop at some point.