Specially Special

Today, as I was gathering my snacks for a long day of classes, I heard Younger snickering in the hallway.

I glanced at him. “What are you laughing at?”

“I was talking to myself,” he told me, still grinning. “And I cracked myself up.”

I shook my head, bending to lift my computer satchel onto my shoulder. “That’s kind of sad, Younger.”

“Nah, all I need for company is myself.”

“You may end up with only yourself for company.”

He shrugged. “And the gremlins that follow me everywhere.”

I don’t know, I might be prejudiced, but I think Younger is a special kind of special.

And his little gremlins, too.


Cold Fusion Baldness

Younger is out of data.


So, as he is always looking for an excuse to visit his grandparents and Internet works as well as any, he texted his grandma, inviting himself to her house. And she accepted the invitation.

But he would have to share the house with seven ladies.

“I’ll stay in the basement,” Younger assured me. “They’ll never even see me.”

Because he is allergic to people. So am I a little.

“I’m impressed Grandma has the energy to have a party after working all day. I just want to go bed when I get home.”

“Cold fusion,” Younger announced. “Her source of energy is cold fusion.”

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Mm-hmmm,” he assured me. “It explains Grandpa losing his hair, too. ”

He has all the answers.

Not the right answers.

But he has answers.

Blow Me Over

My computer crashed.

And burned.

Elder managed to help us save a majority of the files.

But . . .

The older the files the less luck we had in retrieving them.

So . . .

All my old stories on the boys.


Except I had sent one of my files to a cousin. She sent me a copy.

So, I have a tragedy but not as tragic as I could have had. And in the midst of the tragedy, I had one moment of joy when I found an unremembered file containing stories on the boys just before and right after Younger started kindergarten and Elder third grade. And today I thought I would share my favorite . . .

My mom called our house the other day and, by chance, which means I didn’t get there quick enough, Younger answered the phone.  And in the course of the conversation, Mom asked him where Elder was.

“Well, blow me over,” Younger responded.  “I don’t know.”

Which was an answer that amused my mother endlessly.

Now, she and Younger have a game in which they argue over who loves me the most.  Younger has at times requested, “Can you call Grandma Songbird?  I have something I gotta tell her.”  So, I dial the numbers then Younger takes the phone and announces in response to Mom’s greeting, “I love my Mommy more than you do.”

And he just cackles.  And when Mom threatens to reach through the phone and pop him in the nose, he makes me hold the receiver and yells from a distance, “I love my Mommy more than you do.”  And he cackles some more.

So, the last time Mom called, she told me, “You tell Younger that I said, ‘Well, blow me over but I love you more than he does.”

So, later, I dutifully repeated, “Grandma Songbird says, ‘Blow her over, but she loves me more than you do.’ ”

“Well,” Younger said, puffing up.  “I can tell you, she is definitely mistaken.”  And then he added in a mutter, “And she can just blow her ownself over.”

Which was an answer that amused his mother endlessly.



Have Drunken

I may have mentioned that mornings are not Younger’s best part of the day.

However, the other day, as we drove along the highway snaking inevitably towards the school, he, uncharacteristically, attempted a conversation. “I drunk — ” he started then paused, glancing at me. “I drank . . . I drunk . . . drank?”

I grinned at him. “At least you didn’t say ‘have drunken.’ ”

“One time!” he objected, offended. “Just the one time.”

Yeah, but once is all it takes in this family.

Besides . . .

Have drunken.

Why would I let that go?



Best Guess

Am I the only mother who finds scraps of paper all over her house with mathematical equations scribbled all over them?

And the boys never know if they are important.

Maybe, they tell me, snatching the papers from me only to leave them on another surface.

And so, I tuck the random papers in a growing stack, because I do not want to be the mother who tosses the first part of the equation that answers a question plaguing all humankind.

You know, that mother.

But as the stack of mathematical equations towers higher and higher, I have to ask myself —

Am I raising mad geniuses?

Or slobs?

I know, I know.

Mad geniuses.

That’s my best guess, anyway.