Your mother used to beat juice?
Which remindes me of the day I was trying to get my very young son upstairs so I could get him ready for bead and I started toward the stairs saying, “I’m going to beat you.”
He ran toward the stairs yelling, “Don’t beat me, Daddy! Don’t beat me!”
The front door was wide open. Fortunately nobody was outside.
My allergies are whomping the daylights out of me. I’m tied and sleepy and my eyes are itchy and watery, and I need another breathing treatment.
This is awful
On my eighth birthday, I told my dad that I was eight, and he said, “Who ate you?” I was SO not amused!
I suspect your son felt much the same way I did then...