Puberty

It’s early.  Well, OK, it’s 9:24 a.m. but I’m a slow mover if I can help it at all.  Yesterday was a huge day.  I’m tired just thinking about how to deconstruct it for the computer.  Plus I have my reservations about hashing it all out.

I started to write about how our puppy ran away yesterday while a friend was visiting.  We went to look for her (in the friend’s truck.  Thank you, friend) but we couldn’t find her.  She’d crossed the dangerous road in front of our house, and we were almost sure she’d been killed.  When we returned, defeated from the search, our faces a dangerously-ugly shade of red, there she was in our yard.  She was looking at us with a Mr. T I-pity-the-fool expression.  Or that might have been her normal expression.  Anyway, she’s alive and I don’t want to type all that out so I’m moving on.

Then I thought, with fear and trembling, that I might write about our visit to Chick-fil-A last night.  How we waited and hour and a half for our food because the line was so long.  How no one shoved, or tried to butt ahead in line, how they threw away each other’s trash, and passed orders back to the right customers.  How the manager came and shook people’s hands at each table.  How customers were laughing and chatting.  How I saw a news crew and was simultaneously hopeful and terrified that they’d ask to interview us.  But then I thought that it would be politically polarizing to write about Chick-fil-A.  And I know that haters gone hate.  So I decided against it.

So instead I’ll leave you with this little aside between Oldest Son, Middle Son and Yours Truly:

Oldest Son:  Man, I have a lot of moles on my face.  Mom, why do I have so many moles on my face?

Middle Son (interrupting):  Because, man, you’re hitting puberty.  Hard.  That’s why.

Me:  Those aren’t moles.  They’re freckles.

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