As we ate dinner the other night, N~ looked at me at one point and said something about me being a bad kid.
“No,” I told him, “I was a good kid.”
He laughed and said, “Really? No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was,” I insisted. “I made life easy for Grandma and Grandpa. Go next door and ask them–they’ll tell you. I was good.”
That must have carried enough authority for him, because he then shifted gears.
“Was Daddy a good kid?”
Bwa ha ha ha ha ha! Pardon me while I collect myself.
Sean and I looked at each other, both wondering how to balance honesty and diplomacy in our answer.
“Well, um,” I stammered, “Daddy wasn’t always supervised as well as he could have been.” Sean smirked and muttered something about that being one way to put it.
“Let’s just say that your brother wasn’t the original frat boy.”
I think that N~ left the conversation thoroughly confused.
That’s a lot better than him wondering if he could ever light a sewer system on fire like Daddy once did.