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.

 

 

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Balancing Act

Younger had to entertain himself last night at the restaurant. So he begged a penny off of me and confiscated both of our forks.

Balancing Forks 2

He then trapped the penny between the tines of the two forks, pointing in opposite directions, then balanced his creation on the lip of his soda mug.

Balancing Forks 1

He was impressed with himself.

I asked him, “Do you know how many hands have touched that penny? And now that penny is wedged into my fork?”

“Well,” he drawled, “after a while, the number of hands is immaterial.”

He’s not nearly as clever as he thinks he is.

Well, he might be as clever as he thinks he is.

But he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.

I better not die laughing, anyway.

My Sad Life

“Dad, if you fill a container with ice then fill all the empty space with water then seal the container then put the container in a freezer, will the water freeze?”

My forehead falling with a loud ka-thunk against the glass of the passenger side window, I peered into the darkness of the spring night, desperate to find anything that might interest me more than the conversation I knew was about to ensue.

Ignoring me, my husband answered Younger with a “Yup.”

“But what if the container is really strong? What if the container won’t allow the expansion? Won’t the pressure itself create heat and prevent the water from freezing?”

“Well, I suppose there would be some heat from the pressure. I suppose that would affect how much of the water froze.”

“Then could we make an ice bomb?”

Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk.

So, if you ever witness our little family travelling along the roadway and you notice my head bouncing rhythmically against the window, you can be assured the engineer and his prodigy are discussing math or science or some other such useless nonsense.

No one ever says, “Hey, Mom, I accidentally used a dangling participle the other day, and it was absolutely hilarious. ‘Wearing only my underwear, the bear spied me as I emerged from my tent.’ Get it? The bear wasn’t wearing my underwear. I was. We all laughed.”

I live a very sad life.