There are some questions a mother just shouldn’t have to hear from her sons. I’ve been the victim of thirteen years of zingers. And the hits just keep on coming.
Not all questions are dumb. Plus, my sons are sensitive, and talented, not like other kids.
They’re artistic: “Where’s the graffiti remover?”
They know the importance of good grooming: “How do you get taffy out of hair?”
They’re sensitive to women’s issues: “Were those sanitary pads in the closet important?”
They have civic awareness: “If one were to light fireworks illegally in New Jersey, where would one go, hypothetically?”
They have a sense of the rhetorical, and the ironic: “Mom, why would we stick our five-year old brother’s head in the sink of a supermarket bathroom? What pleasure could we possibly derive from doing that?”
(This denial turned out to be true, his head was NOT wet from the sink. They derived their pleasure from a different source).
The older they get, the more sophisticated the questions. One of my twins recently sauntered past me, performing a skit from the off-Broadway play How to Look Casual When Approaching Mom for Money – he hugged the dog, kicked a ball, whistled a tune and asked me how my day was going.
(ALERT! ALERT! Son asking me about my personal welfare, DANGER, Will Rogers, DANGER!)
And then it came.
“Mommy, do you currently have an active checking account?”
My head whipped around. His face was empty, like nutrition in a slice of Wonder Bread.
“Why?”
“Just curious.” He pushed buttons on his iPod touch.
Pause.
“Mom?”
“Now what?”
“Is our median household income well over $100,000?” His fingers poised over the buttons of his iCrack.
“What is this about…” I started, and then my iPhone sent me a text:
“Catherine Zeta Jones was recently diagnosed with a) Schizophrenia b) Rabies c) Bipolar disorder or d) Gingivitis. Answer correctly now and win a free iPad!”
He was looking down intently, still pushing buttons.
“Who texted you, Mom?” Assuredly it was the same tone of voice that would one day be used for the question, “Who are you leaving the house to when you die, Mom?”
“Who texted me? Michael Douglas. He wants to give me a free iPad.” I glared at him, trying to freeze his soul with my icy gaze.
He looked up, feigning surprise.
“Wow! Cool! Congratulations! Can I share it?”
Young boys forget you can check their stories. They don’t possess the skill and sophistication to cover their tracks. A $250 phone bill for two 13-year olds who don’t answer their phones is suspicious. Upon investigation, I discovered that someone shorter than I had spent one hundred dollars on the “Greatest Hits of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.” I didn’t know that they had any hits, much less greatest ones.
“Wow, someone must really like Anthony Kiedis, huh?” I stood, brewing, in the doorway of their bedroom, watching them kill innocent civilians in a bloody video game.
“Who?” They answer in unison. They share a brain as well as a room.
“Anthony Kiedis. The lead singer of the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Someone in this room spent one hundred dollars of our household income on their greatest hits. You’d think he’d know that.”
After years of observing guilty behavior, I can detect the slightest prevarication. A raised eyebrow, a rise in core body temperature, sweat on an upper lip. But they didn’t miss a beat. Born sociopaths.
“Uh, I think I bought one song,” Twin A says. Eyes never leave the screen.
“I bought one too. But just one song,” says Twin B. Eyes never leave the screen. They consider me Medusa, and avoid looking me in the eye.
I hyperbolized on the cost of songs these days. Fifty dollars, I say, is certainly a lot for a song.
“Yeah, we thought so too, haha….uh, Mom? Could you move? You’re blocking our view.”
One zinger after another.
