Back to School

No first day of school pictures on Facebook for me. No one wants to see a seventeen-year-old cry.

This summer, I encouraged Younger to attempt to enjoy his last two years of school, finishing my magnificent motivational speech (if I do say so myself, which I have to) with “You will never again spend all day with your friends.”

He grunted. “I wouldn’t say we’re so much “together” as suffering while sitting side by side.”

And I gave up.

Because no one wants to see a forty-four-year-old cry, either.

Deader than Dead

Elder decided to show his grandma the complexities of one of his video games, one built on the concept of the undead.

“Ah,” he interrupted his own stream of explanations to complain. “I died.”

“I thought you were already dead?” I questioned.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“But they killed you.”

“Right.”

“So, you’re just still dead, right?”

“No, I came back to life.”

“So . . . you are alive.”

“No, I’m dead.”

“So, you were dead, they killed you, you died, but you came back to life, but you’re still dead.”

“Right.”

Younger, recognizing my increasing frustration at the Abbott and Costello routine, offered, “Don’t worry, Mom. It’s all canon.”

I love my boys.

I don’t understand them.

But I love them.

Widowing

Elder finally has a Facebook page. Apparently, one of his friends decided he needed to emerge from the Dark Ages and created a page for him, for some reason unexplained to me or my husband giving Elder the status of widower.

When Younger heard me explaining the status to my sister, he corrected me, “Widow.”

I shook my head. “Widower. Widow is a woman, widower is a man.”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. Then he explained carefully, “The widower is the one doing the widowing.”

Yeah, not exactly.

 

Evilest

Younger had to register for school yesterday. And he can no longer pretend July will last for eternity.

“I hate that place,” he groused, slouched in his seat. “I think it’s the people. They’re evil.”

“Hey, Big Guy Too is one of those people. Big Guy Too isn’t evil, is he?”

“Ah, yes, he is,” Younger insisted. “He’s the evilest.”

I sighed. “Most evil, Younger,” I corrected. “If you’re going to hate on school, at least do so while being grammatically correct.”

“I think that defeats the purpose,” he objected.

I had to admit he was making some kind of sense.

And now I’m scared.