When we got M's hair cut yesterday my boys were allowed to roam the house. This has never been a problem before. The two boys who live there are a bit older, but haven't had a problem with my kids playing with their stuff. None of us had any reason to think there might be a problem.
This morning J came out and slyly showed something to B. Not taking the item out of his pocket sent warning signals up to my brain. I asked his what he had. J got the smile he gets when he's being "tricky," and we played a game of, "Tell Me What You've Got That You're Not Supposed to Have." I was fairly certain it would turn out to be some type of food, or something belonging to his big sister. Imagine my surprise when he finally pulled out a a pocket knife.
As he was going through some of the toys yesterday he found said item. Things happened, brother's dared each other, and the next morning they were confessing what the other had done. Soon I was looking not only at a pocket knife, but a Batman toy as well.
To say the least I was vastly disappointed. We quickly packed everyone into the car and headed back to the scene of the crime. J began to cry heavily at the thought of admitting what he had done, and giving the stolen item back. He hated the thought of what this young man, whom my son respects immensely, would say.
It wasn't easy to watch the process. While B simply handed the Batman back and said a quiet, "Sorry," J was in absolute tears. He felt so bad. I knew from the way he was crying his chest probably hurt, he was struggling to breathe, and he felt the entire thing down in the depths of his little heart.
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