The following is a "conversation" I recently had with my 9-year-old. I was nose-deep in a spreadsheet. He was bouncing a ball and watching out the window, waiting for a friend to show up.
Pete: Mom, do you think I’ll ever be homeless?
Me: No. Do you?
Pete: Because I don’t really like to commit to working.
Me: Hmm. Do you think you’ll always be like that?
Pete: I hope not. If I’m going to own a turkey farm in Nebraska like I’m planning on then I better really get my act together. Also, I would like smaller ears and brown hair, and a smaller, cuter nose. I will keep my blue eyes, though. They hypnotize people.
Me: Hmmm. I like your blonde hair. You should keep it.
Pete: Yeah, well I’ll bet you a million dollars I won’t get a date until 13th grade.
There goes Sam’s dad. Sam is part Hebrew, I know because he goes to Hebrew school with Harry. He’s also part Jewish. Part Jewish, part Hebron. I guess he’s Hebron anyway, although Hebron isn’t the right word, but I’m pretty sure they’re Jewish anyway. At least partways. Not Evan, though, he’s not Jewish. So we’ll probably talk about sports while he’s here. Either that or his sisters. He’ll appreciate being here without his sisters. You can relate to that mom, huh, having sisters? Nice to get away, right? Man, the minutes are going by really slowly. Maybe he’s not going to be here for a long time and I should just be watching a movie to kill the time. Either that or go shoot all those pigeons on Vicki’s house, because they’re all just standing there. Does Evan’s mom drive a big white pickup? Nope. Not them. Maybe they have a small Suzuki or a Jetta. I don’t know. Probably a GMC? Just random questions, Mom. Well here come a big car and it is……it is not stopping. Dang. Well I must admit I am just a little hungry. I betcha 50 bucks that Evan hasn’t eaten lunch. But if he hasn’t, then I am not giving you 50 bucks. Okay, let’s change that. I bet you Evan HAS eaten lunch. But I really wish he HASN’T eaten lunch, because then he can eat lunch with me.
Do we have hot pockets?
And that, Ms. Bossperson, is why my spreadsheet doesn't make any sense.