Boy Child likes to accompany me to the market on Sundays.
Well, "likes" is probably a strong word. He goes with me because he enjoys talking. Excessively. And I'll play his favorite game which is "Guess which Animal I am!" and he can totally always beat me because I say things like, "I'm small and brown and eat nuts" and he goes, "A squirrel" and then the whole game is over and it's his turn and he says something like, "I'm a flightless bird...I don't have any wings....I'm the symbol of New Zealand..." and like, two hours later I'm still guessing and he, very gently says, "Mom? Are you sure you went to college?" because he was talking about the Kiwi. Of course.
But anyway, he goes with me. And holds the coupons while I shop.
So there is this particular aisle in the store called the "Snack" aisle. On this aisle are the chips and beer.
We don't drink alcohol, but Boy Child seems to think this is hilarious and always says, "Look at me! I like chips and beer!" and pretends he's drunk.
No. I don't know where he got that. I blame television.
Anyway, today we are in the chips and beer aisle debating the merits of plain salted chips and Doritos when a man came down the aisle with approximately two hundred children, all under the age of six.
Okay, there were five of them. And they were all walking. But they were all really young.
No, he was not a youth pastor taking the children on a field trip. He was there to get his chips and beer.
Four of his five children ran into my shopping cart while I was looking at the Cool Ranch Doritos. To his credit, he apologized for his rag-tag bunch, all of whom had on short-sleeves and flip-flops.
Boy Child was watching them intently and had that LOOK on his face. At which time I began to pray.
Because as every mother of a child who sometimes speaks out of turn knows, when they get that look on your face? You better start praying. Especially if who they are thinking about looks like he might put a cap in your ass.
Thankfully, Boy Child was silent until they left the aisle, all the little children toting six packs.
"Mom?" he said. "That guy bought a lot of beer."
"Yup," I said.
"Maybe that's how he got all those kids. Gah!"
As we were driving home we were talking about what will happen when Boy Child becomes a teenager. It was all so wrong, particularly when he said, "Now, teenagers do sex, right?" but eventually the conversation came around to how he wants to get a part-time job after school, probably at Burger King, to give me money.
I explained to him that he didn't have to give me money, that I was his mother and it was my job to support him. That I thought having a part-time job was a good idea and it was always wise to learn how to earn your own money and manage it, but that I also wanted him to be able to enjoy his high-school years. That I wanted him to enjoy his life.
He was silent for a moment, that son of mine, and he said,
"Mom, don't you know? You're like, half of my life."
GAH. If I could put him in a box and keep him forever, I totally would. Just like he is today. Right now. Pretending to be drunk or not.