A Little Funny

Here is an old story from 2003 when Younger would have been four years old . . .

It had been a long day. And it was only 12:30. So, when we exited the laundromat and climbed around the piles of freshly cleaned sheets, blankets and comforters, neither Younger nor I was in a good humor. He, however, decided to comment on mine.

“Mom,” he said as I buckled him into his seat, his eyes deceptively innocent. “How come people aren’t funny anymore after they get big?”

“I don’t know, Younger, I think I know a few funny people who are big,” I said, irritated.

He waited until I had slid under the steering wheel before continuing. “When I get as big as you – when I get that big, I won’t be funny anymore.”

And now I felt as large as a house and also rather dull. “Sure thing, Younger.”

“Mom, how long do I have left to be funny anyway?”

Well, considering we had just entered noon traffic and were a couple of miles from home . . .

I gave him fifteen minutes.

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Betrayal

Living somewhere in the back of beyond, we have few options for internet. For the last eighteen months, we have settled on tethering to our phones. But we only have twenty gig of data.

So, let’s do some math.

Twenty gig of data divided by two young men equals . . . no data in about five minutes.

Since I need internet for my employment, we have warned the boys that we will shut them down at six gig.

And so we have.

Every. Single. Month.

This month they almost lasted three weeks. But on Tuesday, Younger’s birthday, I checked the current usage.

“You’re over your limit,” I told Younger.

“No, I’m not,” he stated, staring into my eyes like he had access to the Jedi mind trick. “I’m not over my limit.”

I rolled my eyes, and due to the day being his seventeenth birthday, I allowed him to continue to have access.

His dad was not so gifting. Or perhaps he is immune to the Jedi.

“Will be late. Had to stop to turn off the boys’ data,” he texted me while I was in class.

“The betrayal,” Younger howled as soon as I stepped into the house. “The treachery.”

“You know the limits, Younger,” I responded.

“How can you so betray me? Your only teenage son?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Where do you want to go for your birthday?”

“Wherever they have internet.”

“You are spending time with your family, not your phone.”

“Oh, the betrayal!”

Ah, that he has to deal with such perfidy. And on his birthday, even.

Life . . . without internet . . . apparently, it ain’t for the sissies.

I really don’t know how are forefathers survived.

 

 

 

 

 

Twenty

Elder is now twenty years old. Well, twenty years and two days, actually.

For the last several weeks, Younger taunted, “Have you realized, Mom, that in just a few weeks, Elder will no longer be a teenager?”

Then late Monday night, when I texted that I loved and missed him while he traveled with his Dad, Younger responded, “Elder is 19 years 364 days, and 21 years old. Still love/miss me?”

Not quite as much.

The last day I had with my oldest as a teenager, he sprawled on the sofa with his head in my lap. “Stop petting my hair,” he told me, shaking his head so the curls fell back into place. “I’m not a dog.” But then after a moment, he offered, “You can scratch my back.”

“I thought you weren’t a dog,” I countered.

But I scratched his back.

And now Younger is the only teenager in our household.

Which he views as a position to be spoiled.

How did the years slip through greedy fingers? How did the tiny baby wrapped tightly in a blanket morph overnight into a grown man?

When exactly did I lose control?

Oh, yeah, I remember.

July 12, 1996.

The Man Store

I apologize for posting a day late. We are having issues with our internet.

Here is a story from February 2004. We were building our house and Younger, at the age of four, was not enthusiastic about all the resultant shopping . . .

I am no longer allowed at Lowe’s. Not according to Lowe’s. According to Younger.

“Mom,” he announced as we left the lumber department, his little hand in mine. “This is the last time you can come here, you know. This is a man’s store. And you are a ‘gurl.’ And I’m a boy. I’m not even supposed to be here until I grow up. But you can’t come back. Ever. Okay? Do you understand, Mommy?”

Oh, I understand. I, apparently, lack the correct amount of testosterone to enter a home improvement store. I must have missed the sign . . .

And then when we returned in May . . .

So, we made another trip to Lowe’s. After an hour of shifting through paint cans, wire, and other miscellaneous building materials, we stood at the checkout counter, shoulders sagging. Then Younger turned, looked at me with eyebrows drawn low over his eyes and asked, “Ain’t this the store I told you you couldn’t ever come back to?”

Yeah, yeah. I guess I snuck past that testosterone counter . . .