Say it, don't spray it

Jack was in a LOT of trouble with his dad, and went - no, ran - downstairs and got into bed, crying. So I went to comfort him. We had a long talk about life - the kind where you bare your soul, tell all kinds of things from your own childhood that you think will bond you two together, comfort him, etc. I was telling him (not for the first time) that we shared something in common, that we were both the oldest of three children. And that I knew what it was like to have your little brother or sister tear something up, hit you, say ugly things, and then feel so sad/mad/whatever when all your parents do is tell you, well, so-and-so is just a baby! Or, so-and-so didn't know not to do such-and-such. Or, you're older, you know better. I told him all kinds of true stories about my own sufferings, especially the one about John Robert poking his little fingers through my doll house windows! And all Nana and Buddy would say is, But he's just a baby, Heather! He doesn't know better! Jack was so quiet during all of this, really soaking it in. I talked about how life just isn't fair, we all have our hard days when we feel like everyone else gets the fair shake. I talked about how good his life is, how we could have someone we love in a hospital dying and hurting, but we don't. I reminded him about his nice house he lives in, the nice clothes he wears, the fun places he gets to go, and all of the fun exciting things he's done or gets to do on a regular basis that his brother and sister don't. I finally shut up, and felt like I'd really made some progress with him. He had stopped crying (blubbering), was even quiet. He looked at me, and very plainly with no sarcasm or anything, said, "Mom, the next time you talk to me will you not spit?"