Every Good Thing

So, this week, Younger had his first work holiday. But his response to having that holiday?

“Now I have two Mondays this week.”

Yeah, his glass isn’t just half empty.

It’s bone dry.


Fear of Commitment

Today, I thought I would share a story from 2001 when Elder would have been just five years old . . .

The other night, Elder asked, “Mom, do I have to get married when I grow up?”

“No, Elder, but being married is nice.”  And because he has had objections to sleeping alone lately, I added, “You won’t have to sleep alone then.”

“But I don’t want to get married!”

“Okay, Elder.”

“Mom, when I grow up, will you tell everyone that I don’t have to get married?”

. . . So, here I am, with a grown up, almost twenty-two-year-old man, and I am dutifully informing everyone

Elder doesn’t have to get married.

Just so you know.


Everything Is Good . . .

The other day, Younger forgot his wallet at his desk, which he did not realize until he was leaving for work the next day. Well, in his wallet is his ID, which is necessary to gain entry onto the installation and into the office in which he works. Fortunately, a very kind coworker met him at the gate with the wallet and ID.

So, being an occasional helicopter parent, I asked him to inform me when he made it to his office. And this is what I got:

Isaiah Text Message

Younger, my own personal comedian.

Which means everything is good.

Cept, you know, that Middle East thing.

Chances . . .

My boys always figured chances were never ending. Elder once even reminded me, “But Mo-om, God even gave Jonah a second chance.”

Yeah, argue that one.

Or with this one, from Younger, when he was three years old . . .

Younger enjoys bouncing on the sofa, despite my immediate protests. He usually takes a chance every week or so, just to check if I’ve changed my mind. And when I warn him with a simple and weary, “Younger,” he immediately follows with another attempt, just to check if I’m serious.

So, today, after the first admonishment and second bounce, I told him, “Younger, you do it again, and you’re in trouble.”

“Four more chances,” he bargained.

“No, you’ve got one more chance. You do it again, and you’re in trouble.”

“Four more chances,” he repeated, a clear threat to wail in his voice.

But I remained firm. “No.”

“But I want to do it four more times,” he cried.

And honesty is supposed to be an admirable trait.

Home Is . . .

When we took Younger to Rolla to register for classes, he had to participate in math placement testing and parents had to be entertained in the interim. So, current students performed skits for the waiting parents, one of which suggested we not make any big changes in the house the first semester or so. The students still needed the safety and security of home being the same when they returned.

Which had me thinking back on a recent conversation with Elder . . .

“Since you will be staying in Columbia this summer,” I approached my oldest child carefully, “I think we may move Younger into the bathroom upstairs. You would have to share it on the weekends you are home.”

And Elder, who only visited once every three weeks or so the last two semesters, looked at me and sincerely pledged, “I plan to be home a lot this summer, Mom.”

Yeah, don’t make any significant changes the first semester.

Or the first year.

Or second or third . . .

Old Things

Younger is helping in the museum this summer, offering assistance with the little, time-consuming tasks that the staff struggles to fit into a packed schedule.

Today, he texted me, “The computer they gave me runs on Windows XP.”

“Old, huh?” I replied.

“I think it is just a few years younger than me.”

“That is old.”

“I think they pulled it from an exhibit. The mouse has a ball in it.”

Apparently, for Younger, eighteen years is old.


That’s sweet.

Yay, Mom

So, last week, I took Younger to lunch. And as we pulled out of the restaurant’s parking lot, he announced, “Hey, Mom, I think that van said S.H.I.E.L.D. I think we should follow it.”

“If the occupants of that van are really from S.H.I.E.L.D., they will know we’re following them.”

His head spun towards me. “You know who S.H.I.E.L.D. is, Mom?”

“Uhmmm, isn’t that who IronMan and all those super guys work for?”

“Yay, Mom,” he cheered. “Well, who they used to work for. But still — Yay, Mom.”

Yeah, apparently, that is what impresses my son. That I have paid enough attention to the hundreds of conversations over the various superhero movies flooding the theaters.

Because I haven’t ever actually seen one.

And that is why I say .  . .

Yay, Mom.