December 20, 2009

Theories Dealing with Grass

My eldest was out with friends last night, so the rest of us went out Christmas shopping. My husband and I took the two younger boys out to eat at TGI Fridays.

On a side note, as awful as my boys can be to each other, the ugly things that brothers will say and do, it is this time of year that makes me see that they really do care about each other.

Bones still believes. This is our last Christmas. He truly believes and has somehow rationalized the entire Santa thing in his head... at least for this one last year. We're all living off of it... the last year with Santa in the house.

He wants to see Santa in the worst way, the WORST way. He says over and over, "We have to ask for a PS3! How will he know that we all want the same thing?"

I, for one, will not miss standing in the Santa line. After 14 years, I am done. That's the tough part about being the youngest kid. By the time things get to him, I'm done with it.

How many times could I hear the story read to me about the cat and the mat and the cap in First grade? How many times did we study Johnny Appleseed? How many of the same stinkin' projects... having three kids in school is like that movie Groundhog day. You do the same frickin' stuff over and over until you want to scream.

Exciting for Bones? Yes. But sorry, I'm not so thrilled with the prospect of his making a sombrero for Spanish next year, should he be at this same school. We've done the sombrero twice and I'm not jonesin' for #3.

Anyway, so unfortunately for Bones, the visit with Santa has pegged my "DONE!" meter. Fortunately for Bones, my husband and I hide it well.

And this is what warms my heart: My older boys have no desire to see Santa. Please. The thought of being caught having their picture with Santa, being caught by buddies at the Mall, cannot make them happy.

Yet they say nothing.

Realizing the potential life scarring embarrassment, we are scheduling it for 9:45 PM, right before the Mall closes, the line should be short, and all their friends home. I wait in line with my cell phone. When I get to the front of the line, I call my husband and say, "NOW!" and they quickly show up, Bones says his stuff, the obligatory picture is taken... and it's done.

And I love the fact my older boys do this for their brother, the brother who bugs the ever living crap out of them.

OK, for my real story.

Background: Mr. T is horribly allergic to grass. It's a topical allergy. If he goes outside with no shoes, his feet break out in a dry itchy rash.

So he said to me last night, "Mom, you don't ever have to worry about me smoking weed."

Me: *blink*

Mr. T: Yeah, my friends and I were talking at school. You know that grass allergy I have? If I smoked weed I'd probably have some sort of allergic reaction and die.

I laughed.

Mr. T: So, you don't have to worry about me.

In all honesty, he was the last kid I worried about doing drugs. The one I worry most about is Bones.

I know that T's theory is flawed, but I'm not saying anything. If that is motivation to keep him on the straight and narrow, that's way OK with me.

Good Grief.

Posted by Boudicca at December 20, 2009 10:51 AM
Comments

You should have saved the original sombrero.

Posted by: Angus of Islay at December 20, 2009 09:22 PM

It was too big, Dad! It was 5 feet around! Ringo looked like a frickin' mushroom when he put it on.

Posted by: Bou at December 20, 2009 09:35 PM

Oddly enough, depending upon what Mr. T is allergic to in the grass, he may well be correct. In that case it would be not only smoking it, but inhaling the smoke from others too. Rather like what happens to people who get caught in the smoke from burning poison ivy. That can be very unpleasant.

Good for your boys for sticking together with their younger brother. You have some excellent kids.

Posted by: Teresa at December 21, 2009 12:06 PM