Black, white, black, white.
Step one, step two.
There is no in between, there is only logic.
This is my “work is insane” mantra.
It’s repeated often, sometimes hourly, but always under my breath.
When the yearly carnival of crazy began, with my days first blurring then blending into a wild kaleidoscope of faces; all with problems to be solved, I didn’t realize I might have lost some of my perception.
Thank goodness my son Duck, is around to remedy this situation and bring me back to reality.
Duck is still suffering growing pains and firmly within the grasp of his own crazy carnival ride of (gasp!) tween angst.
His tween town lies smack dab in the middle of Xbox is king and bordering on but not quite crossing, the girls are okay city limits.
I’m not ready for that city to rezone.
Zoning issues aside, appearance is an important thing to Duck.
If we’re to go by appearance is important in that…
A. Clothes are on his body
B. He’s seen the inside of the shower within the past 24 hours.
Or so I thought.
Turns out, appearance is more important to him than either of us knew until this past Monday, when Duck got up (under vehement protest of course) and dressed in the dark.
He thought he was being cool.
He thought he was defying me and my parental edict of wearing un-wrinkled clothing, fresh underwear, and preferably matching socks by rocking the arrogantly shabby look instead.
He thought wrong.
But not until he’d gone through the entire school day, more than likely grinning over what he felt was a sweeping victory over all things parenting.
He walked around school with his head held up, his eyes twinkling and his tween self just bursting with confidence and energy, so sure he was the talk of all his new admirers.
Yeah, he probably had a lot of conversations going…
He was Duck.
He was cool.
He was wearing…his mother’s pajama shirt.
All. Damn. Day.
Wanna know how to bust a tween boy’s bubble in 2 seconds or less?
Pick him up after school, goggle at the sight of him, and laugh. Laugh hard, laugh long, laugh until you hold on to the steering wheel for support.
Then? Tell him why.
He still won’t talk about it. He really gets mad when I start giggling and he knows the reason isn’t the one finger salute I got from the grandma I just passed in the fast lane.
I love Duck even if we aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment.
The good news is that he’s volunteered to do his own laundry from now on, lest another wardrobe malfunction occur.
My Duck is growing up.