Younger identifies three categories of vehicles — cars, trucks, and vans. I have encouraged him to add a few categories, but he is happy with his three.
“Younger,” I have muttered with exasperation. “One day, you will witness a crime, and you will tell the cops that the criminal jumped into a white van, and meanwhile, he’s escaping detection in a white Chevy Blazer.”
But he says the odds of him witnessing a crime are low, so he sticks with his categories.
The other day, we were circling the school’s parking lot at halftime of the football game, watching for fans leaving early, when the lights of a van flashed in the darkness. Circling around one block of cars, we came back to search for the empty space.
“Is that where the van was parked?” I asked Younger, frowning.
“Yeah,” he assured me.
“Huh,” I mumbled. “I thought it was farther down the row.”
“Huh-uh, it was parked right by that thing.”
In the process of pulling into the empty space, I touched my brakes to glance at Younger then follow his pointing finger.
I blinked. Twice. Unlocked my jaw.
Then finished angling into the spot.
“Younger,” I said quietly, killing the engine with a twist of the key. “I think you may be the only male in America who would point at a Corvette and call it ‘that thing.’ ”
“It’s just a car, Mom,” he reminded me.
Well, yeah, sure, just a so-shiny-you-can-spot-it-in-the-dark, blue, convertible, fairly expensive, sports . . . car.
Or, you know, more commonly known as “that thing.”