Part of being the parents of a boy is training him to be a man. For my husband, this apparently consists of teaching him how to throw a punch, take off dirty socks in such a way they roll into a tight ball, and to drive a stick. As the mom, my role is less defined—the tall kid’s been taught to hold doors for me, carry my groceries, have impeccable manners and say “yes, ma’am” in much the same tone as he will someday tell his wife “yes, dear”. He’s also starting to learn the road to someday finding a woman willing to put up with his crap til death they do part is filled with potholes.
So Sunday I was given a photograph and the following conversation ensued:
Tall kid: Who’s that?
Mom: Isn’t she cute?
Tall kid: Not really.
Maybe a two second pause…
Tall kid: Oh crap, that’s you isn’t it.
Dad: You gotta catch on quicker than that, bud, or you won’t survive.
(That is, in fact, a five-year-old me. My grandmother had it done before I left for England so my Dad would have a decent picture of me, I guess. Looking at it, it’s the first time I’ve considered maybe the short kid got his square head from me. :lol:)