While waiting for the mechanic shop to replace the tires on Elder’s car, the two boys and I had lunch at a local fast food restaurant. And, while we were munching on our sandwiches, the conversation somehow landed on the color of Elder’s hair, its paleness apparently a continued source of good-natured teasing amongst his classmates.
“It’s getting darker, though,” I told him.
The amusement fell from his face. “It’s not getting darker.” He paused. “Is it?”
“A little.” But before he could relax in the belief that he would retain that piece of his identity, I added, “But it will keep getting darker. Like mine did.”
“I don’t want it to get darker,” he objected.
I shrugged with helpless empathy. “I know. I didn’t like it, either.”
“But my eyes are still blue,” he argued.
Confused, I blinked at him. “That doesn’t have anything to do with your hair color. My eyes are blue.”
He leaned across the table for a closer look. To assist him, I opened my eyes wide then batted my lashes.
“Well, Dad’s eyes are brown,” he continued stubbornly.
“Your Dad’s eyes are green.”
For goodness sake, halfway through the school year, his Advanced Algebra instructor has yet to teach him anything he didn’t already know.
But the color of his parents’ eyes…well, now, there’s a stumper.