Or, what really happens now that my children are reading.
My seven-year-old, Squishy, loves to read. He is at the point where he reads everything. He will read over my shoulder. He will read labels. He will read t-shirts. He will read basically anything.
Squishy has become a reading machine.
He also likes to read over my shoulder while I am on my Kindle.
“Mom, what the crap is wrong with this lady?”
“What lady?” I ask, “and don’t say crap.”
I am reading about Anne Boleyn. “She is not a freak, Squishy, she just had some issues.”
“Like what?” he asks as I wonder briefly how far to take this.
“She was married to a famous king of England and it didn’t end well for her,” I strategically answered.
“Why? Is his name Henry?”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I read it over your shoulder,” he grinned triumphantly, “See ya, I am going outside, OK Mom?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I answered.
Yesterday, heading for a quick grocery store stop, Squishy said, “Mom, the truck next to us has a bad word on a sticker.”
“What does it say?” I asked, trying to navigate through the zillion traffic lights in our small town.
“Will I get in trouble if I say it?” he asked.
“Just read it to me,” I said, with the patience and kindness of a women with mild road rage.
“Bad ass,” he said, “It says bad ass. Why is he a bad ass, Mom? He doesn’t look like a bad ass.”
“OK,” I said, using the mom voice, “You can stop saying it now.”
“Well, he doesn’t look like one anyway…Hey, Mom, the sign over there says not to text and drive. And that one says the service begins at 10, and that one says…” And so on, and so on.
I think I may need that martini. Stat.