Try Harder

Elder may know that I write a blog. He might have heard some rumors. But, overall, he just doesn’t pay attention.

Younger, on the other hand. . .

Last night, he asked, “What are you going to write about tomorrow, Mom?”

I shrugged. “I’ll probably just share an old story. I don’t remember anything from this week.”

“Huh.” He frowned until his forehead creased. “Next week I’ll try  harder.”

I’m looking forward to it.

You should to.

Not to put any pressure on him or anything.

You know, just sayin’. . .

It better be good.

 

 

Told You

For the record, I do not like driving on snow.

I do not even like driving when snow appears imminent.

Just for the record.

So, this morning, as I prepared to head into the treachery of white, I looked at Younger, who was gloating in the bask of a second day off school, and stated, “You have to stop hoping for snow. Seriously.”

“No. Never. Not even in the summer.” He patted my shoulder. “I can have a snow day, and you can survive driving on snow. Both are possible.”

“Stop. Hoping. For. Snow.”

“You’ll make it, Mom.”

I did, actually. At about twenty-five miles per hour. With a string of traffic behind me.

But specifics really aren’t important.

What is important is I made it.

In the parking lot of my work, I texted Younger of my success. He wrote back, “Told u.”

Which means snow will still factor into his hopes and dreams.

Which means even if I survive the snow . . .

Younger may not.

Viva Las Vegas

On Tuesday, I started a new (second) job. Aware of my apprehension, and always eager to avoid a day of school, Younger slid into the passenger seat of the car, raising his eyebrows at me, and suggested, “Me and you. Las Vegas.”

I laughed then sighed. “We have responsibilities, Younger.”

He accepted the comment in silence, but he hadn’t really surrendered.

“It’s not too late,” he informed me, as we waited at the light in front of his school. “Viva Las Vegas. I’m no Elvis, but you know viva Las Vegas and all.”

“I don’t even know which direction Las Vegas is in.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he assured me.

“It matters a little.”

“Fine, then. Jeff City. We’ll play the slots. On my phone.”

And he grinned at me.

Just in case anyone hasn’t realized, he’s trouble, that one.

And one of these days, when I’m writing you from Las Vegas or maybe a closer locale while playing slots on Younger’s phone, you’ll know. . .

I chose trouble.

 

 

 

Maturity 2.0

So, last night, I decided we would have breakfast for dinner. And I bopped around the kitchen gathering ingredients for pancakes.

First, flour. Then sugar, baking soda, and salt.

I was on a roll.

With all the dry ingredients in one bowl, I beat eggs in a different one then turned back to the refrigerator and pulled open the door, only to release a growl of frustration.

“What?” my husband questioned, as the refrigerator door thunked closed and my hands remained empty.

But then from the living room, Elder volunteered, “You need me to get some milk, Mom?”

“Yes, please,” I answered with patience. “Thank you for offering.”

“Well, I did drink the gallon in two days.”

Yes, he had. In two days, an entire gallon of milk.

But, apparently, in one semester, he had gained the maturity to realize he could help me solve a problem he created.

Maybe by summer he’ll actually text me a note when polishing off a gallon of milk.

Milk as evidence of maturity.

Who knew?