Speak Science to Me

When Elder was home for Thanksgiving, I warned him, “Either you clean your room or I will.”

We all know which one he chose.

Of course.

I spent three days in his room.

I found 102 teeny tiny chess pieces, although I’m pretty sure he only had one teeny tiny chess set.

I collected a couple thousand teeny tiny Legos.

I found invitations from colleges that he had received over his last two years of high school. He had stuffed them into his bookcases.

Why?

I don’t even know.

I moved books from the floor into the newly cleared bookcases. I even had room for the book wedged between his mattress and footboard.

I found empty boxes for three phones, one Kindle, two Bibles, one computer, and a clock.

I even found instructions to a wood burning kit. I don’t remember him having a wood burning kit. I didn’t find a wood burning kit. Not too sure what happened there.

Last night, I looked at Younger and announced, “Your room is next.”

His eyes widening, he shook his head. “Homeostasis, Mom.” He patted the air with his palms. “Ho-me-o-sta-sis.”

Which I think is science for “Don’t touch my stuff.”

But he really should know…

I don’t speak science.

Just a Pawn

On the way to the state math competition last Saturday, Younger sprawled in the back seat of the car with a friend, the two young men engaging in chess matches on Younger’s phone. First, a dark head bent over the digital arrangement of pawns, rooks, bishops, knights, and royalty, then, the phone exchanging hands, a fairer head lowered over the tiny board.

After suffering a couple losses, however, Younger decided to test an as yet untried tactic.

“Not Bob,” I heard him murmur in feigned disbelief and shock, as his friend’s finger hovered above the screen, clearly on the verge of ending the career–as well as the life–of one favored pawn. “You can’t kill Bob? He has a wife and five kids.”

Oh, the poor widows and orphans of these pawns moved so recklessly across a checkered board.

When will man cease to use these small, faceless creatures for their own morbid amusement?

And the real tragedy is Bob died at least three more times that day.

Oh, the inhumanity.