4 April 2013
Sometimes Teresa and I just lie in bed and talk about how great Enzo is. We find it endlessly entertaining. Last night she started it.
“Enzo’s such a good boy.”
“At school, he and Keelan are the only ones that really wrestle, and Keelan knows all these moves from his dad, so Keelan usually ends up on top, and Enzo never complains even when it’s really rough. Then when Keelan’s on top of him, the other boys run and jump on the pile, and he still doesn’t complain.”
Our discussions of his many perfections usually end something like this: “Do you think it’s just because we’re his moms? I mean, objectively, don’t you think he really is–” (You can fill in the blank here: a good boy, very funny, extremely beautiful, etc.) And then we agree that yes, objectively, he is all those things, we’re sure of it.
“If you farted at work, you’d be obsolete.”
“Mom! Hello!” He opens his hand to show me a shiny stone. “It’s a rare beauty. Take a picture of it and show it to your boss.”
“You have two choices. You can let me watch TV or you can hit me on the head with a hammer and let me die. Which do you choose?”