Elder is a programmer.
Apparently, according to a cousin who is a fellow programmer, he thinks like a programmer.
Which just explains almost everything.
Because I don’t really think like a programmer.
But the other day, Elder spent a trip home from a basketball game relaying a stream of information about his tech class. And, at one point, he must have goaded me into somewhat defending my intelligence because I drolly announced, “Yeah, I did okay in my programming class, too, Elder.”
Then a sideways glance.
Then, “I didn’t know you took a programming class.”
In a voice that reeked of belated respect and moral confusion.
Then he discovered that I had taken the class during the days of “run DOS run,” and he regaled me with all the advances made in the science in the last twenty years.
And I listened, because, really, I had asked for it. I even grasped a significant portion.
Never mind that the extent of my skills was demonstrated by a triangular Christmas tree made of X’s and printed noisily on perforated paper. And Elder had helped his teacher build a web page then rigged the system to show an accelerated amount of “clicks” on the page.
For a moment, we were both programmers.
But only for a moment.
Then I was a mom and he was a teenage son and we were arguing over my incessant need to remind him to “drive safely” whenever he heads toward his car.
Just in case you thought that moment of unity was a sign of the world coming to a glorious end, well, it wasn’t.
The world spins on.
But I’m a little smarter for this rotation than I was the last.