Meddling Kids

On Sunday, we took advantage of the warm weather to give our two dogs a bath — a task dreaded by all of us, perhaps most especially the dogs. And we chose to wash Dusty first, as she is the fastest and was already warily eyeing the hose being dragged from the basement. Then, as I finished rinsing the soap from her fur, ignoring the indignation in her glare, I sent Younger into the house to retrieve the as-yet-oblivious George.

And as I glanced up to see him trudging towards the house in his socks, I added, “And don’t you leave footprints across my wood floor!”

“But Mom,”he objected, barely glancing at me as he turned towards the garage, “then how will Scooby Doo find me?”

I frowned at him. Until he disappeared into the shaded interior of the house.

Then I dipped my head and grinned. I might have even laughed.

But I can’t really let him know he entertains me.

I already have sufficient supply of snarkiness from that meddling kid.


Tough Guy

The other day, in our local grocery store, as Younger reluctantly held the vase of Hershey’s Kisses topped with a balloon that I had bought for his father, he appeared both mortified by and resigned to a moment of less than manly appearance.

He was not always quite so dignified. And I have a story from 2004 when he was four years old to prove it . . .

Leaning an elbow on the arm of the sofa and crossing one foot across the other, Younger asked, “Do I look tough?”

“Absolutely,” I responded immediately.

He cocked his head to the side. “Why?”

Well, it was the “Blue’s Clues” house shoes that did it for me.

The Wise One

The other day, as Younger and I were driving home after a visit with his grandparents, at most a fifteen minute trip, he asked, “Can I turn the heat down?”

“Oh, yeah,” I told him. “I was getting hot, too, but I thought I could wait it out.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see him turn sightly towards me, his head at an inquisitive tilt. “Mom, the knob is right there.” He pointed towards the dash. “You can reach it. No problem.”

“Yeah. I know.” I shrugged. “I just thought we were almost home, and I could wait it out.”

He shook his head, settling back in his seat. “Usually, Mom, you are wise and like the exact opposite of stubborn. But then sometimes . . .”

Well, huh, I’m wise.

As a mom of a teenager, I take that as a real proper compliment.

And I’ll just overlook that whole “usually” part . . .

Because, you know, I’m wise that way.

Feel My Pain

Despite breaking my heart and quitting football, Younger had continued to take a weights class until last semester, when he simply could not fit one in his schedule. At the start of the new semester a few weeks ago, he was able to once again join the class, although he did so with much trepidation after missing several months of workouts.

And now when I ask him to perform simple tasks — feed the dogs and cats, throw his trash away, actually put his plate in the dishwasher — I hear, “But my muscles, Mom — they hurt.”

Apparently not satisfied with the level of sympathy he was receiving one day, he decided to elaborate. “Mom, I don’t think you understand just how much I pain I am in. I woke up in the middle of the night last night because I rolled over.”

Then this morning, as we prepared to leave the house, I asked, “You have everything you need for weights today?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.  “Except for muscles, endurance, and a will to live.”

One class I know he doesn’t need — drama.

He’s already got that all figured out.