Stealing Daddy

Today is the last day my husband gets to be 44 years old. As he was leaving for work this morning, I told him to enjoy his last day to be so young. I didn’t ask him to repeat his reply.

But, anyway, in honor of him, I thought I would share an old story from 2000, when four-year-old Elder still thought his Daddy was a pretty special guy…

The other day, the boys and I left the house before my husband. Younger and I actually walked out the door before Elder — which is usual.  The neighbors are most likely accustomed to my constant urging of Elder to hurry.  So, when I finished tucking Younger into his car seat to find Elder still on the front step, I wasn’t surprised — frustrated but not surprised.

I stalked around the front of the car and tried to shoo him towards his door.  Trying to keep one eye on me — preparing to run, if necessary — and one eye on the step — trying to prevent his downfall, so to speak, he gingerly lowered one foot to the ground, motioning to the door behind him.

“I locked it,” he told me. “I don’t want the bad guys to get Daddy.” He nodded once.  “That will keep the bad guys out.”  Then he cocked his blonde head to one side, considering, and added, “It’ll keep the good guys out, too.”

Only a few months ago, he believed the reason that we locked the door was to prevent strangers from watching our television while we were gone. Now, he thinks they want his Daddy.

He was probably closer to the truth the first time.

Happy Birthday to my husband!

And a Happy New Year to all of you!

 

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Homeostasis

Last week, ignoring Younger’s pleas, I cleaned his room, which included a lot of boxing and trashing. And despite his trepidation, he found the changes somewhat tolerable.

Until bedtime.

“Aaaaah,” he cried. “My bed has been moved. Mom! My bed has been moved.”

I stuck my head into his bedroom. “Maybe three inches, Younger.”

“My bed’s been moved.”

The next day, I asked, rather sarcastically, “Did you manage to sleep despite the moving of your bed?”

“Mom, I had to get up and move it back,” he admitted.

“Seriously?”

“Well, I kept waking up and the dresser was in the wrong place and I kept thinking I was falling out of bed.”

I have never in my forty-three years used the position of my furniture to gauge whether I was lying supine on my mattress or tumbling towards my floor.

I mean, you know, the thud or the lack thereof was always my first clue.

Then he added, “You also stole my third pillow.”

So I returned the accidentally filched pillow. Because he, apparently, needs a pillow for his head and a pillow for each hand.

I’ve done my best the last sixteen years, but obviously…

That boy just ain’t right.


 

 

 

Speak Science to Me

When Elder was home for Thanksgiving, I warned him, “Either you clean your room or I will.”

We all know which one he chose.

Of course.

I spent three days in his room.

I found 102 teeny tiny chess pieces, although I’m pretty sure he only had one teeny tiny chess set.

I collected a couple thousand teeny tiny Legos.

I found invitations from colleges that he had received over his last two years of high school. He had stuffed them into his bookcases.

Why?

I don’t even know.

I moved books from the floor into the newly cleared bookcases. I even had room for the book wedged between his mattress and footboard.

I found empty boxes for three phones, one Kindle, two Bibles, one computer, and a clock.

I even found instructions to a wood burning kit. I don’t remember him having a wood burning kit. I didn’t find a wood burning kit. Not too sure what happened there.

Last night, I looked at Younger and announced, “Your room is next.”

His eyes widening, he shook his head. “Homeostasis, Mom.” He patted the air with his palms. “Ho-me-o-sta-sis.”

Which I think is science for “Don’t touch my stuff.”

But he really should know…

I don’t speak science.

Literally

The other day, when I questioned Elder about one of his classes, he answered then asked with honest confusion, “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re my son,” I responded. “Because I’m paying part of the bill.”

“Dad pays the bills.”

My mouth dropping open, I was unable to reply for a few, long seconds then I squeaked, “What do you think I work for? Popcorn?”

“Mom,” he replied, patiently. “Dad is the one who sits down and pays the bills.”

Of course, my literal son meant the statement literally.

And since we were on the phone and I haven’t actually mastered the art of reaching through a phone for his throat, he survived the misunderstanding.

Not that I’ve ever reached for his throat.

I mean, you know, literally.