Living in a houseful of girls, who insist that shoving stuff into corners and hiding dirty clothes under the bed is, you know, cleaning, I sometimes forget that we have a son and I don't mean, like, I forget to pick him up from school (which is a good thing, seeing as my kids go to four different schools) or, that he's not listed on our tax forms, or anything.
It's just that, you know, boys are different.
Although, I really DO have trouble remembering which is which (all three of my daughters' names begin with the same letter) there isn't a day that goes by when my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I don't find ourselves praying for patience to NOT have to ring their little necks.
The Boy? Well, I just send him to his room. After all, he IS the only one who doesn't have to share one!
My oldest daughter is turning 15 in November (I know, but that's a whole OTHER blog post) and has this way of getting my attention, by making me believe that something in the house has sprung a leak, AGAIN.
"Can we talk?"
I had a feeling, it was NOT going to be good news.
"The Boy called me a name, today."
"I'll talk to him about it."
I had a feeling, judging by the look on her face (yeah, I'm good at that) it was NOT going to be enough.
"Aaaand, have him apologize."
"I'm guessing, a crucifixion is in order."
After explaining to her what exactly that meant (um, we are in between churches, at the moment) I excused her sisters from the kitchen table (The Boy was playing a video game in the living room) and asked her to whisper it in my ear, anyway.
[eyes go wide]
Holy crap (yeah, I said it out loud) but, this one was going to hurt!