He’s 14 going on 48 most days, clever as hell and with a quick wit and even quicker snark — one that has been refined by the unapologetic coaching of two older brothers (and, okay, maybe a bit of influence from a father who can be 48 going on 14 some days).
That’s why the following conversations happen on any random weekday in this house …
Him: Did you get an email from the gym teacher?
Me: Um, nooooo.
Him (a look of part-surprise, part-relief on his face): Hmm.
Me: Should I have gotten one?
Him (shrug): Not if she believed me that I didn’t shove Tyler out the back door of the gym and hold the door so he couldn’t get back in, no.
Me: Well, did you shove Tyler out the back door of the gym and hold the door so he couldn’t get back in?
Him: No. But she thought I did. Grilled me for like an hour about it.
Yes, this is the same gym teacher who did email me a couple weeks ago, seemingly at her wit’s end with my son and his buddies. In fact, I’m plenty surprised she hasn’t just dropped her whistle on the floor and walked out by now — and I have absolutely no idea how he and his merry band of miscreants have even a shred of credibility at this point.
But we’ll take whatever victory we can get.
We’re at T-minus 6 days until his Catholic school career is over and then he’s on to the public school, where he can shove whomever he wants out the back door of the gym and hold the door so they can’t get back in and nobody will give a damn.