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.


In a discussion on teenagers, driving, and the preferred pace on roads with lettered names, Elder happened to assert, “I don’t speed.”

“Everyone speeds,” I responded with a shrug.

“Nah,” Elder argued. “I usually stay between 55 and 60.”

“Sixty is speeding. The posted speed limit is 55. Anything over it is speeding.”

Elder rolled his eyes. “Well, sure, if you’re going to take it literally.”

Well, my mistake

The law is obviously no place for a literal translation.

Just ask a member of Congress.