Younger does not enjoy mornings. Ever, really. But particularly on school days. Oh, most particularly on school days.
Every week morning, I announce, “Younger, time to go.”
And he will remain on the sofa, hidden beneath piles of bed covers, hoping I have forgotten the actual existence of a younger son.
“Younger,” I repeat.
“The blankets and I have formed a bond. I cannot break their trust by leaving them now.”
I shake my head at the muffled voice. “Time to go.”
When I have finally prodded him to the truck, he slumps in the seat, his eyes closed, ignoring the existence of sunshine, mothers, and schoolhouses.
So, the other day, allowing him his fifteen minutes of stubborn oblivion, I listened idly to the music spilling from the radio. Then one of the deejays made the announcement that soda sales had dropped to their lowest in thirty years.
“Mom.” My comatose son popped upright, animation lighting his eyes. “The soda companies are in trouble. I can save them.” He thrust his palms outward in a gesture of earnestness. “Sales are down. I can stop the suffering.”
Yeah, well . . .
Who’s going to stop mine?