With-a-Why has been hanging out with teenagers since he was small. When he was in kindergarten, he would play chess with Boy in Black's junior high friends. He and Boy in Black are so much alike that the six and a half years gap between them has never much mattered. He has Boy in Black's dry sense of humor, lines delivered with a completely straight face, and it's all the more effective coming from such a little person. Both boys will deliberately say stuff to annoy their feminist mother, and my husband always marvels at what they can get away with. "If I said that, you wouldn't find it funny."
The other day, I had to take With-a-Why to the eye doctor's. I had to rush him to get him out of the house. I have no patience, none whatsoever, and I hate being late for anything, so by the time we got in the car, I was in full Psycho Mom mode, ready to strangle him if he didn't put his sneakers on right that instant. And how is it that he didn't know where his glasses were? Didn't he know he had to bring his glasses to an eye doctor appointment?
Of course, once we were driving along, and I glanced at the clock and realized that we weren't going to be late at all, that in fact we would be early for the appointment, I felt bad for all the yelling and nagging. I glanced over at the cute child next to me, with his pale skin and big dark eyes, all young and innocent.
"I'm sorry," I said to him, "I hate being late. I guess I was being a mean Mom."
He looked at me from under his long black eyelashes, with a glimmer in his eyes. "I prefer the word bitch."