Sorry. I was daydreaming again.
Y’all can file this under ‘Not One of My Prouder Moments’. I swear, if that folder gets any bigger, I’m going to have to rent a storage unit. So. Youngest son is a big one for ‘earning’ his keep. Or at the very least, pocket change. Even when he was very young, he wouldn’t ask for money. He’d ask what he could do to earn money. I admire that in a 9-year old. I do. So we gladly oblige him with household chores for which we pay him in varying degrees of coin. Lately, he’s taken to selling things for cabbage. Fortunately, they are his things and not ours.
Last night he drew a picture. Not one of his normal detailed masterpieces, but a pretty basic on-the-fly sketch. He comes to me and says, ‘Mom, ya wanna buy this?’. I smile. Cause y’all know that’s cute, right? I play along. ‘Sure, son. How much?’. He lays it on the desk, ‘Seventy-five dollars.’
I surpress the immediate impulse to be the Super Bad Mommy and bite back the ‘Son, are you on crack?’ that’s ready to trip off my tongue. Instead I say, ‘Seventy-five dollars is pretty steep for a picture you just scratched out here in the last … mmm … five minutes?’ Which, y’all have to admit, isn’t nearly as mean.
Y’all know it’s not.
So he cocks his head sideways which signals great annoyance. I’ve seen it before. I have. Oh lots and lots of times. He then goes on to explain some fantasy story that begins with ‘remember when …’ and ends with ‘you took all the coins in the big family penny jar up to the bank and it was about seventy-five dollars when they counted it, and you said I could have it, and that you’d put it into my account’. Blah blah blah. It was all … ummm … vague.
The boy forgets nothing. Which is a problem.
So. I explained to him that I did indeed take that seventy-five dollars and put it into his piggy bank, and would you believe it … that dadgum pig gobbled up his cabbage. I assured him, however, that justice was served when Mr. Hammer caught up with Mr. Greedy Piggy and said pig met a rather tragic, but well-deserved end for his transgressions.
If youngest son was 3-years old, he would have believed me. My mommy intuition tells me so. At 9-years old, however, he’s one smart cookie. And coupled with the fact he’s broke, he wasn’t buying any of it.