Poor Peep. He had a tough evening this past Thursday. We had too much fun and excitement before bedtime, so when it came time for the tub and the jammies and all he pretty much collapsed on himself in a screaming, sobbing heap, a sort of Chernobyl core meltdown in grubby corduroy pants.
He wanted nothing to do with me - I was the Bad Daddy - and even Mojo had a difficult time with him. At one point he was sobbing "You're mean! You're so mean! You're the meanest!" in the middle of the living room floor. (I was mean, BTW, because I wouldn't let him watch his Dora the Explorer video before bedtime...)
Anyway, Mojo finally got him snuggled into his heap of blankets on his floor (this being part of his normal nighttime routine) after I escaped with just a scrap of cursing, he quieted down a bit and just clung to her, all sniffley and damp. I closed the door to his room, and just before I turned away, I heard him say in a perfectly conversational voice:
"I'm in really bad shape."
Even when the house is murder, he's a funny guy, the Peeper.