Name Calling

Every year, as soon as school opens in August, Younger starts praying for snow. So, he was thrilled last week when the temperature dropped from seventy to thirty overnight and the sky threatened of snow flurries.

“I would laugh so hard if we didn’t have school tomorrow,” he announced, tugging on the refrigerator door to survey the hidden contents.

“You’re gonna have school tomorrow,” I assured him.

My husband added, “The roads are too warm for snow to stick.”

“And precipitation isn’t even in the forecast after midnight,” I tacked on for good measure.

Disgusted with the two of us, he pulled his head out of the refrigerator, shutting the door with a thud. “Well, I think it will snow. And you know what you are? Snow pessimists. That’s what you are.” Then he stomped from the room, muttering, “Snow pessimists.”

Well, I mean, I’ve been called some names in my lifetime, but he might as well have called me an adult.

And that just hurts.

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Strong Man

The other day, while fixing dinner, I took advantage of being stuck in the kitchen and cleaned out my refrigerator. Then I asked my husband to take the trash outside, and he complied obligingly.

“Anything else need to go in?” he asked, as he bent to gather the sides of the plastic bag into a knot.

“Nah,” I responded, distracted by a boiling pot. “It’s almost too heavy as it is.”

When I finished stirring the potatoes and adjusting the temperature of the burner, I turned back to him, a little curious as to what was holding up a usually quick process. And I found him flexing his muscles by hefting the bag in one hand like a dumbbell, up and down, up and down. Brows furrowing in utter confusion, I lifted my glance from the bobbing trash bag to his face.

“Too heavy,” he scoffed.

Slowly, realization dawned, and, rolling my eyes, I reassured him, “I meant too heavy for the plastic bag. Not too heavy for you.”

I’ve never before managed to question the strength of plastic and somehow slight my husband’s virility.

I think I’ve discovered a new talent.

Public Displays

Even at the age of seventeen, Elder is still willing to dole out hugs in public. Younger, on the other hand, wouldn’t even let me walk him into the school building his first day of first grade.

So, yesterday morning, when I pulled into the circle drive of the Middle School, I reached across the bench seat of the truck to pat Younger’s shoulder in farewell. “Have a good day. I love you.” Then I added with a teasing sideways glance, “I guess you won’t let me give you a quick kiss, maybe just on top of your head there?”

“Uh, no,” Younger responded, reaching to release his seatbelt.

“I know,” I exaggerated a sigh, placing a palm against my chest. “It hurts my heart.”

Younger paused to stick his hand in my direction, offering, “Handshake?”

I pumped his hand. “It was nice doing business with ya.”

He grinned, clambering down from the truck. “Bye, Mom.”

I wonder if he’ll have the same aversion to public displays of affection on his wedding day and only share a quick handshake with his new bride.

Actually, now that I think on it, if I can’t get a kiss, she better not either.

Stop your laughing.