A Fine Example

The other day, Younger was explaining why he chose to spend the day with his grandparents rather than with video games.

“I won’t remember playing the video game in even a few weeks,” he told me. “But I will remember the day with Grandma and Grandpa.”

My heart expanding with motherly pride, I smiled softly at him. “That is a very mature decision-making process.”

“It’s how I look at doughnuts, too,” he continued. “If I don’t think I will remember eating the doughnut in a week, I don’t eat it.”

“Well,” I replied, “that’s why I eat six doughnuts if I eat one. I won’t likely forget that.”

Apparently, his maturity wasn’t learned through example.

 

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Y Chromosomes

Yesterday, as I was working diligently in the kitchen, I requested Younger help brown the hamburger.

“Are you asking because you need help? Or because you want me to learn?” he asked suspiciously.

Rolling my eyes, I latched the can opener onto another can. “I would appreciate the help, and you should appreciate the learning.”

“We are listening to my comedians,” he told me, as he reluctantly straightened from his slouch on the sofa and onto his feet.

“Why do you and your father believe you need either incentives or rewards for participating in the cooking of your own dinner?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged then offered, “Y chromosome?”

“I don’t know why chromosomes, either,” I replied, dryly.

“See, Mom,” he responded, shuffling into the room. “We all have two chromosomes –”

“I understand about the Y and X chromosome, Younger,” I interrupted, now with an edge.  Then I pointed over my shoulder at the pan on the stove behind me. “Brown the hamburger.”

“Well, Mom, some of the kids at school don’t know about chromosomes, and they just learned about it. It would have been a long time ago for you.”

So, Younger was the only one of my three males who didn’t feel it necessary to explain everything to me.

And, apparently, I’m old.

It was a rough day.

 

 

Suspect Behavior

Younger has been waiting for one particular book for about two years. For the last six months or so, the author has released three chapters each Tuesday. This Tuesday, the entire book (with at least one thousand pages) was released.

Somehow, Younger got strep throat on Monday.

He couldn’t return to school for twenty-four hours, long enough for the antibiotic to work.

So, yes, that’s right, he was home on Tuesday to read a thousand-page book he has been waiting on for two years.

I suspect foul play.

I can’t prove it.

But I suspect it.

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.

 

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.

Technologically Challenged

Yesterday, our internet at home decided it did not want to play. So, I engaged in that time-honored ritual — I unplugged all the wires, counted to twenty, plugged in all the wires.

And still no internet.

Then after dinner, I had Younger pull all the wires. And we lived without internet for an hour or so.

Not really. We are no longer capable of living without internet. We actually drained the data on our phones.

But when we reattached all the wires to the modem, we still could not access the home internet. So, frustrated, I called the phone company.

After ten minutes of trying to answer the mechanical man who assured me I could speak to him in full sentences but kept asking me the same questions, I finally voiced, “Can you connect me to a real person?”

Then he put me on hold for eight minutes. Where another mechanical voice would randomly thank me for my patience. As if that would make me have some.

It didn’t.

The same voice would randomly tell me if I could access the internet on my phone or tablet, I could use the app to have my conversation with a service tech. After the fifth recitation of that bit of advice, I yelled at my phone that if I had the internet, I wouldn’t be calling them. But, of course, the only response was the mechanical voice once again thanking me for my patience.

I still didn’t really have any. I may have had less than what I began with.

Yeah, actually, I did have less.

When I finally got through to a real person, she asked me what state I was from and gave me the “correct” number to call. So, I politely thanked her and ended the connection. Only to discover that was the number I had called twenty minutes earlier.

And my patience was officially fried to a crumbly crisp.

So, I fired up my hotspot and logged into our account on the website and started a live chat with a nice lady who told me to “take all my time” as I kept sending Younger upstairs to search the modem for whatever number she was asking for at the time.

Eventually, Younger showed up at the bottom of the stairs, a bit sheepish. “Uhhhhhmmm, Mom? I think maybe the modem didn’t get plugged back into the outlet a while ago. I think the internet is working now.”

Apparently, maybe, we aren’t sure exactly, but I might have unplugged the modem from the outlet then forgot I had done so. Then I might have sent Younger upstairs to pull all the wires and he might have unplugged the wires from the back of the modem, not realizing I had done my damage first.

And, when he put all the wires back into the appropriate places, he was still unaware the modem was actually unplugged from the outlet.

Which is probably a rather important component of a working modem.

So, yeah, I guess I’ll work on my patience.

And, I suppose, my memory, too.