I found this in my drafts and it’s dated April 2016. So the kids were 14 (Jack) and 7 (Blake). I have no idea why I didn’t publish it.
J: Speaking of Irish….You know what’s really good? Russian music.
Me: *blank stare*
B: Jack, when you get to the age where you have to move out, what are you going to do with your stuff? How are you going to take your computer?!
Jack is 14.
Me: We’re not kicking him out next week, so it’s okay.
J: There’s a thing called Uhaul. You have to be older to understand the Uhaul.
Blake tripped over the bottom of his chair and after we snuggled and the worst of the pain had passed, he got up.
Me: I don’t see any blood.
B: I see a red spot.
Me: Let me see.
B: It’s not blood. It’s just a red spot.
Me, looking: Yeah, that’s a spot from hitting it. Like if I thumped your leg, you’d have a little red spot for a few minutes.
B: Do it.
Me: What? No. I’d never hurt you on purpose.
B: It was a test.
J: Blake, can I have a Mike or an Ike? And does it matter which one?
B: You can have an orange one.
Me: And you don’t even have to ask its name.
B: They can’t talk.
I’m not sure whether to be frustrated that my brilliant humor is going to waste or amused that he’s so serious.
B: Mama, can you help me find something to eat?
Me: Yeah, I guess. How about these chocolate-covered pretzels?
B: No, they’re not satisfying.