Change Is Hard

Dad is transitioning to a new job. That and a hard drive failure (#@$##@!!), equals plenty of change (and silence).

L to Dad: “Why are you leaving your company?”

D: Because someone else thinks I’ll be great.

[SIDEBAR: This work move does not entail a physical move for L. It means Dad will work closer to home. Better commute. Better benefits. Exponentially better life.]

L: But what about your old company? What will they do?

D: They’ll be fine.

L: Dad, sometimes work isn’t about the money or fame or power. It’s about love and family and friends. Please don’t turn your back on them.

D: (silence)

L: Dad, do you understand the implications of what you’re doing?

D: Yes, I do. And sometimes when your teacher or your friend or your boss doesn’t think you’re doing a great job, you need to find another situation.

L: I hope you’re making a good decision.

D: I think I’m making a great decision. And I’ll keep everything you said in mind.

Necessary Evils a.k.a. Homework

Ah, number lines. L approaches them in an assembly-like manner. Assess question, color in least number of squares, write digits in sequence.

M: “I notice that when you’re doing these exercises, you always color in the least number of squares necessary.”

L: “Yes, that’s my strategy.”

M: “Seems to work well. Looks like it’s a good strategy.”

L: “I’m a good strategy.”

Can’t argue with that.


Best Kid Ever

Rotten day, yesterday. Worst day of my career. I’ve never seen a more ridiculous set of adults in my life. I’ll leave it there. Left work early. Picked up the lad from school.

The goal: Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.

I cried.

L: “Mom, what’s wrong? Why are you sad?”

M: “Some people at work weren’t very nice to me. You know when you’re really good at something and no one can see it? That’s what it felt like. Felt like I was embedded in a world of aliens.”

L: “I’m so sorry, mom. I don’t want you to be sad. I love you. You’re the most amazing person I know. And I thinkĀ  you’re really good at what you do.”

M: “Thanks, sweetie. That means everything to me.”

L: “I’ll be very sensitive to you. Let’s go do my homework. Then we’ll sit together under a blanket and you can put your head on my shoulder and hopefully you’ll feel better.”

M: “I’m sure I will.”


M: “It’s time to sign up for chess club.”

L: “Oh, man, seriously? Please… Not this time.”

M: “But you’re so good at it. I wish I could play like you. Why not?”

L: “If you were to eat the same thing every single day of your life, it would get boring, right? It wouldn’t be zesty anymore, right? That’s what chess feels like to me right now. It’s the same thing over and over. Can I please take a break?”

Well said. He did win his last tournament. Maybe someday…


Seven Past, Eight Now

I documented L’s last evening as a seven year old. I took treats to his class the next day. His school has a great tradition of asking if anyone would like to share something they appreciate about the birthday kid. Some of the responses:

“L is a great friend and is always by my side when I need him.”

“L is my best friend.”

“If anyone ever needs any help, L’s there.”

“L is really, really funny.”

“I love how creative he is. He’s helping me learn to draw.”

“L taught me more than I ever knew about gas masks.” (Said by his teacher.)

4HoursToGo CountingDown

Here’s what I’m talking about

So this is why I started writing about L. For almost eight years, I’ve shared things he’s said with other people and they’ve all said, “whoa, he’s… deeeeep.” The other day, he said he very much needed a gas mask. I explained why that wouldn’t be necessary, save them for people who need them. He said, “but, mom, you really can never be too prepared.”

I fret. I tell my bestie about it. Her response: “I’m going to build a safe room.”

Me: “Don’t you think it’s odd?”

Her: “I think he knows something we don’t.”

I stockpile canned goods.

He was born talking.

Finally getting to this. It’s been on my to-do list for 7 years, 11 months and 12 days. I’m not big into the whole “time flies” thing. But it does manage to sneak by if you’re not keeping track.

L was born talking. I’m not saying he was speaking in iambic pentameter, but the fellow was babbling. As in, “baaa baaa baaa.” The slap on the behind followed by a yowl did not happen.

Foreshadowing, indeed.

Man, it’s bright out here.