Doubts

There are moments, okay, hours, if not weeks, when I wonder if L wasn’t switched at birth.

Case-in-point:

M: “Did you make your bed?”

L: “Yup.”

M: “Brush your teeth?”

L: “Yup.”

M: “Sing Rihanna’s new song really loudly without knowing any of the words?”

L: “Nope.”

That last one makes me wonder. Because the order in which I would do my chores would definitely start with singing. And, if I ever made my bed when I was a kid, it bore no resemblance to this tidy bit of work.

(Are the stripes of the blankets actually ALIGNING?!)

YourBed

To Publish or Perish

L came home yesterday and announced he had begun his magnum opus, called…. er…. maybe, “Red Eyes in the Night.” He explained it was a horror story (this from the boy who still nearly faints at the sight, description, or even mention of blood) and he had conquered Ch. 1. He told me that the secret to writing a successful horror story is to “add as much detail as possible. That’s very, very important.” When I asked why, he said, “details make the reader feel like he’s IN the story.”

Sounds good.

He told me that the second chapter would start with a simple sentence: “Meet me at the dock.”

“Doesn’t that make you curious? Aren’t you just dying to know what happens?”

He also said this was the first book he was truly committed to finishing. He then asked, “how old do you need to be to publish a book?”

M: “There are no age limits.”

L: “Wow. Seriously? Okay, I’m going to really make it the best it can be and see if I can get my book published.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I could make (and publish) the book for him. Better to have him shop it around, and see what kind of movie deal he can secure.

 

To Starve?

L is intent on being an artist. Having grown up wanting to be an artist (and somehow actually making a living at something very creative), my heart stops when I hear how passionate he is about this endeavor. The expression “starving artist” sounds romantic. It’s not. And, of course, I’ll support whatever he loves.

As long as it’s legal.

MachineLJWsmall KnightSMALLv2

 

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What the F?

Yesterday as I was chopping some veggies for dinner, I nicked my finger and let out an F-bomb.

L: “Mom, I think it would be more appropriate for you to stop using that sort of language. If you’re telling me not to use it, I think you should stop using it. You’re sending a confusing message.”

M:

L: “Do you think you can stop using that sort of language? Because you’re sort of telling me it’s okay. And I know it’s not.”

M: (DREAM SEQUENCE: You betcha, I will not say s–t, f–k, a–h–e, d-bag, d–k wad, h–l to the no. I will abstain from such language.)

M: “Got it. No more potty mouth.”

L: “Great. What’s for dinner?”

Puberty Punt

While sitting in the general waiting area at L’s doctor’s appointment yesterday, I was handed a pile of paperwork. The usual stuff… Brushes teeth, eats a billion servings of vegetables every single day, doesn’t spend 12 hours in front of a video game… We happened upon a printout on puberty.

Apparently, girls can start puberty at age 8 these days. Who knew?

L was reading over my shoulder and said, “what starts to happen at age 8? What does that mean?”

(He’s terrified. I can hear it in his voice.)

M: “Well, that age applies only to girls. Seems some girls’ bodies can start to change when they’re eight years old.”

L: “Like what? What kind of changes? Like they get wrinkles?”

Thanks.

L: “Okay, so what happens to boys when they turn 10?”

M: “How would I know? I’m not a boy. You’ll have to ask your dad.”

A good punt if ever there was one.