Not Even Close

For the last year or so, Younger has been serious in his search for scholarships. Today, as we were driving to school, he told me, “I found one, Mom.” He flashed his phone in my direction. “It has a 1500 to 2500 word essay. The topic — what should you do in a disaster?”

I glanced at him, raising my eyebrows in question.

He looked back at me, shrugging his shoulders in answer.

“I don’t know . . . Stand sideways and reduce your surface area?” he mused. “Probably should bend your knees a little.”

For those of you who are wondering . . .

That’s not even close to 1500 words.

 

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Hurt to Death

Today, I thought I would share an old story from 2001 when Elder would have been not quite five years old and Younger would have been not quite three . . .

Friday night, Elder, while eating pizza, suddenly exclaimed, “Ow!  Mom that red stuff just bounced off my pizza and onto my lip and it was hot.”

“Haaaa?” Younger repeated, meaning, “hot,” and looked dubiously at the slice in front of him.

Busy at the computer, I did not glance at either boy, as I had taken the pizza from the oven at least fifteen minutes before.  “You’re okay, Elder.”

“No, I’m not,” he argued.  “It hurt me to death.”

I laughed.  “Now, Elder, I think you’re still living.”

“Well,” he replied, sullenly.  “It hurt me to death.”

But don’t be too concerned.  Dead people don’t tend to exaggerate.

Not So Simple

Yesterday, I was scheduled to sit at the desk in the museum, so I rode to work with my husband. When he was late leaving his office due to a telephone conference, I, of course, had to wait for him, which isn’t usually a problem. But last night I had to attend practice for our Christmas program.

So, our answer to the dilemma of cooking and eating dinner in the fifteen minutes I would have at home was to grab a pizza from a convenience store between work and home.

Apparently, that was the incorrect answer.

Because, while waiting in line to pick up the pizza, we heard the following discussion from the two in the kitchen:

“They ordered a large sausage and pepperoni.”

“The pepperoni pizzas are there. The sausage pizzas should be finished in a moment.”

“No, they wanted sausage and pepperoni on the same pizza.”

“On the same pizza? Maybe the sausage is hiding under the pepperoni.”

Two heads bent over a large pizza, as they sliced through the cheese in the hopes of discovering disguised sausage.

“I remember making sausage and pepperoni.”

Finally, the two had to concede that they evidently had no large pizza with both sausage and pepperoni to give us, but they would immediately start one. And they offered us the bill so we could go ahead and pay and lessen our extended wait by a few minutes, anyway.

But as we were standing at the cash register, from the kitchen we heard, “So . . . sausage and pepperoni? One sausage, one pepperoni? Oh, on the same pizza?”

Although my husband’s eyes bugged out a little, he waited until we were back in the car to burst into laughter.

So simple. And yet, apparently, so complicated.

Just like life.

Well, my life anyway.

And that’s why I laugh.

 

Barbecue Sauce with Compliments

Last night, I prepared roast beef with potatoes and carrots for dinner for probably only about the third or fourth time in my life. Then I remembered why I rarely made the dish.

Younger is not a dedicated fan of roast beef.

“I don’t hate it, Mom,” he assured me with a shrug. “I just don’t really like it.”

But then, later, as I worked on my computer, engrossed in writing a Christmas play, Younger wandered into the living room. “Mom, the reason I don’t really care for roast beef is because I feel like you chew it and chew it then finally just have to give up and swallow,” he told me. “But –”

And with the upturn in his voice, I was totally preparing myself for him to tell me my roast beef was chewable, a compliment of sorts, one I would have accepted, as I have no illusions of myself as a cook.

I straightened my shoulders a little.

I started to smile.

“But,” he continued, “if you put a little barbecue sauce on it, it just slides right down.”

Some sons brag on their mommas’ cooking.

Mine, they apparently suggest barbecue sauce to help it all go down.

That’s lovely.

Just absolutely, perfectly, fine-and-dandy lovely.