The afternoon my twelve-year-old explained the overall purpose of his spring-loaded pocket knife to my husband they were sitting alongside one another on the couch. Mathias had just ambled off the bus a handful of minutes before and was busily working on one of his kanzanillion* comics when he asked Maxim if he could walk to the corner gas station for a soda. Maxim paused to consider this; apparently the pause was a beat too long, because Mathias felt the need to sell the idea to his father.
“Don’t worry, I have my knife in my pocket.”
“Mathias, you’ve not been carrying that knife to school with you, have you?” He lifted his sweet round face to Maxim, away from his latest doodle.
“No way! It’s not for school.
“It’s only for rapists and terrorists, Daaaaad.”
Sweet Muffinasses, I am obviously parenting The Child Whose Mother Worked For Social Services Maybe A Smidge Too Long.
*this is too a word. I know because I’m the one who made it up in two-thousand and nine.
6 worked it out »