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“Because I want to go home.”
“Can’t this be your home?”
He shakes his head firmly. “No, I don’t think so.”
“How about we give it a year, you and me? See how we feel by the end of a year?”
His bottom lips drops. I guess a year is a long time to a nine-year-old. Hell, it’s going to be a long time to me. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.” I give the firm parental nod that all the parenting books say puts me in charge and hold my hand out so we can shake on my plan.
“Can I call her Crazy Nanny Barb?”
I think about it for a moment. “Sure, but don’t call it to her face.”
Isaac jumps off the bed. “Okay.”
As he leaves the room, I sit on the bed and smile at my son that’s got so big and sensible. Crazy Nanny Barb. I like that. Wish I’d thought of it.
