Yesterday evening, while we were leaving tennis lessons, Charlie asked me, "So, are we going straight to the party, or going home first?"
Even though he was in sweaty tennis clothes, still had to eat dinner and Doug wasn't with us, maybe the answer wasn't as obvious to an 11-year-old as it was to me. So, instead of giving him a sarcastic answer, I patiently said, "Yes. We are going home. We all need to change and eat dinner. We need to pick up your dad. Then we're leaving around 6:30."
"Oh. Okay. Who's going to be at this party? Any kids besides Jordan?" Keep in mind that throughout this entire conversation, Zach was two steps away from me.
"I don't know who else is going, but I'm sure you'll have fun." And if you embarrass me, I will inflict pain.
Five minutes into the 20-minute drive home, Zach asked me, "So, are we going home first, or going straight to the party?"
I looked at him out the side of my face, sighed, and said "Home."
"Oh. So who's going to be at this party? Any kids besides Jordan?"
"Are you kidding me right now? I just had this identical conversation with your brother five minutes ago. You were standing right there! Weren't you listening?" I'm not sure why I bothered to ask this moronic question. I think I was hoping for him to say something like: "No. I wasn't listening. I know it's a pain in the ass for you to have to constantly repeat yourself. I should pay attention next time. Sorry."
Instead, he said, "No, mom. I do not listen to everything around me unless it matters and is important. So, what time are we leaving?"
There are times when I regret the fact that I didn't get the "Eject Passenger" option on my minivan, and this was definitely one of them. Instead, I cranked some Metallica and pretended I was alone for the next ten minutes, drawing happiness from the fact that there was plenty of vodka at the 40th birthday party, that Jordan was at, and did you know that it started at 6:30?