So Firstborn - who is five - threw one of his toys inside the house tonight. This is a direct violation of one of our long-standing rules, plus we'd just warned him not to. So we took it away.
He ran off to his room yelling, "Evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil-evil!"
I managed to get a pillow over my face before I burst out laughing. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have appreciated that.
A bit later he got into a sort of snit and essentially ran over his little brother (who's about nineteen months old - call it a year and a half). So Secondborn fell down, and I think got the wind knocked out of him. And we decided, at about seven o'clock in the evening, that it was clearly time for bed.
Secondborn got a shower first, then got put in his bed. He seems to be okay; he cried a bit and then went to sleep.
Firstborn got sent to his room, and put in his sleeping clothes, and then he had his teeth brushed. He told us he was feeling bad - which he probably is, he's almost never this careless unless he's sick or getting sick. After lying in bed in the dark for a while, he asked if he could have a story. I told him that it was bedtime, and that he was not getting a story tonight, and that this was because he was in trouble for running over his brother.
Now he's laying on his bed and moaning. "I am doomed. Doomed. I do not care, I am doomed." And just a moment ago: "I was right. I am doomed. Totally right: doomed."
He is so melodramatic. I don't know where he gets it from. It's all very mysterious, really.