The Country Mice

We picked up our boy for lunch the other day.

What with his Ultimate practice, music practice, religion project, humour project (Perfecting the Pun, don’t you know), “I’ve just got to get my Secret Santa gift finished!” and other bits of preteen ephemera, we fairly much need to make an appointment to see him.

So we made an appointment.

“Can we buy you lunch?”

Cute, isn’t he?

Once upon a time he was my baby. I was devoted to him and he to me.

I still remember those days.

He doesn’t.

He told me today he’d chipped his tooth, biting a wire.

“I didn’t know that was a bad thing to do.”

There’s also the faintest thickening of fuzz now peachifying that upper lip.

It is my intent to be mature about this growing up business.

sniff

Dang.