Since Jack has been tracked out for several weeks and is now man-sized (well, slenderman-sized), my dad has taken him along on a few jobs, teaching Jack some things and getting him out of my hair. (His burgeoning teen-humor and video game addiction is like velcro to my hair.)
On the morning in question it was particularly cold outside, and my dad arrived to scoop Jack on his way to the job site, shivering. Jack was (of course) not ready, or dressed to go. I explained to Jack that he probably needed to wear layers.
"Yeah, I know how clothes work," he remarked, in a turdish manner, as he scrambled up the stairs.
I raised one eyebrow and turned to look at my dad with a pained look, only to find his face filled with utter glee.
"Heehee," he said.
A minute later Jack came thumping back down, wearing pants, a t-shirt, and holding a light jacket. Dad and I both stared at him.
"Where are the layers?" I asked.
"They weren't working for me," he said.
I'll let you imagine how the rest of that interaction went. In the end, he left the house appropriately bundled. I overheard my father whisper to him, as they walked down the driveway, "Don't worry, you can take that all off in the truck."
It amazes me how it is human instinct to resist mothering, even in retirement.
"GOODBYE!" I yelled, "AND GOOD LUCK!" (With only a hint of sarcasm.)
On the morning in question it was particularly cold outside, and my dad arrived to scoop Jack on his way to the job site, shivering. Jack was (of course) not ready, or dressed to go. I explained to Jack that he probably needed to wear layers.
"Yeah, I know how clothes work," he remarked, in a turdish manner, as he scrambled up the stairs.
I raised one eyebrow and turned to look at my dad with a pained look, only to find his face filled with utter glee.
"Heehee," he said.
A minute later Jack came thumping back down, wearing pants, a t-shirt, and holding a light jacket. Dad and I both stared at him.
"Where are the layers?" I asked.
"They weren't working for me," he said.
I'll let you imagine how the rest of that interaction went. In the end, he left the house appropriately bundled. I overheard my father whisper to him, as they walked down the driveway, "Don't worry, you can take that all off in the truck."
It amazes me how it is human instinct to resist mothering, even in retirement.
"GOODBYE!" I yelled, "AND GOOD LUCK!" (With only a hint of sarcasm.)
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