What is the Point?
I am filled with panic, writ small. Of course what I fear most is that he will lose it, someone will steal it, Kyogre will come to life and wreak havoc on the camp and New York City. But I don't cop to that. I blame The Man.
"I'm pretty sure that you are not allowed to bring toys from home," I tell him, my brow furrowed in Emmy-winning sympathy.
"Oh yeah?" he says. "Then how come I was allowed to bring the Wii remote control key chain to camp yesterday?"
Well, the main reason is that yesterday I didn't have the energy to argue about it, of course, but what kind of mother admits to THAT?
"You have a point," I concede.
"Where?" he asks.
"What?" I say.
Can a remake of "Abbott and Costello" be far behind?
"Where is my point?" He touches the top of his head and I remember that I used to style his hair with an Alfalfa style point for entertainment value. (Side note: It's a good thing that my husband does not read this blog, because sentences containing the words "son" and "style" and "hair" are subject to eyerolling. )
I tell him that I mean that he has a point, like what he said made sense, he, once again, ran circles around me logically. He laughs. He gets it. By this time we're in the elevator with Kyogre. Camp-bound.