First, the parent reading the bedtime stories was the wrong parent.
To make matters worse, this parent intended to read the WRONG book.
To top things off, his sister got to choose a second book.
[And this too, was ever so wrong.]
A storm formed on The Mayor's brow and blew all the way down to his chin's peninsula.
The storm was progressive, gaining force as it travelled, until it erupted into a three-foot tall hurricane.
Gale force winds rotated on the storm's joints almost resembling the arms and legs of a young child who has lost control.
In the end, The Mayor, busy shattering window panes and tearing off roofing shingles, missed hearing bedtime stories altogether.
[He may not have heard us reading, but we certainly heard him.]
When I finished reading to The Rooster, I went to The Mayor's room.
He was awake, finally quiet, lying in his bed.
He looked at me accusingly with red rimmed eyes.
Can I climb in and give you a snuggle?" I asked.He nodded.
"Sometimes I get really mad," I said.He listened.
"Sometimes I get so mad I can't get myself together and that makes me even more angry. Does that ever happen to you?" I asked.
"The EXACT same thing happens to me," he said.
"In the end, I usually end up feeling angriest at myself," I told him.
"How come?" he asked.
"For not being able to control my anger."He thought about what I said.
"It's different for me," he said. "I'm always angriest at you and Dad."