My job here might be done. Not the pie baking, but kid making. Actually, the kid making is long done, so I guess I mean kid growing, because the youngest gave me the best Thanksgiving ultimatum ever, so I may now claim, my job here is done. Here’s how the pie making went down: Every Thanksgiving Eve, Boy is the pie-maker, taking over from his grandma when she stopped making the over the river and
Home alone – a little brother copes
People told me that if I could live through raising teenage girls, the boy would be nice to me. Those people lied. This kid of mine, the last one home, the boy who would crawl in bed and watch SportsCenter with us, squishing his 6ft frame between his incredible shrinking parents, has turned. He used to talk about sports and music and school and really, really dumb YouTube videos. Now he says
A boy and his balls
My kid, the Boy, is a jock. He may be a nerdy, mathlete jock with an affinity for yo-yos, rubik’s cubes, MasterChef and Project Runway, but he’s every bit an athlete. You can smell it on him. These days, about to go to high school, you can LITERALLY smell it on him. When people ask what’s his favorite sport, we tell them he’s a dog. Just throw him a ball,