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.
The other day, Younger and my husband joined me in the cleaning of the house. Because Younger wanted a video game and the only way I agreed to take him to buy a video game was in a trade — his effort for my driver’s license.
His dad, on the other hand, is just an easy mark.
But as I rushed down the stairs in one of my many trips between floors, I stumbled to an awkward halt on the bottom stop.
My husband, one hand automatically and rhythmically and blindly pushing a mop over the hardwood floor, glanced up from the video he was watching on the phone in his other hand. “What?” As I blinked at him, trying to find my words, he added, a bit defensively, “I’m mopping.”
“Yes, you are,” I agreed, nodding my head. “You are mopping. Yes, you are.”
And I turned into the hallway without finding any additional words. Because help is, well, help, even if it is cheap help.
And I guess I can’t say he wasn’t worth the money.
Well, I could say it.
But I won’t.