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.