My twelve year old son is such a boon to my spirits. He has a special way of lifting me up and touching my heart. Never more so than when he discovers, an hour before bedtime no less, that he has a paper due in the morning. He does it this way:

“Mama! You are SO good at writing! Do other people pay you to write stories and books for them? Do newspapers pay for your articles? I wish I could write like you!”

These exclamations are whispered in awed adoration over my shoulder, at the laptop, as I feverishly tap away.

He is an extremely imaginative child. His writing is strong. His spelling is not. His syntax is — coming along. For my part, I am extraordinarily susceptible to the perils of praise and as such, I will spend long hours polishing papers just to hear him tell me how the world is suffering, suffering the loss of my creative genius.

“How can you wash another dish? How can you cook another casserole? Oh, mama! Surely you must not waste another minute on laundry. You should get your art out to the masses. You need a worldwide audience. And fast!”

Of course, this only goes so far in making up for the last couple weeks where, because he’s 12 and has no concept of time, the running joke at dinner and in the car and basically — well, everywhere, has been how old and feeble-minded I am.

“Mama, did you ride the family dinosaur to school? Was it a T-Rex? Did he try to bite?”
“Who told you broccoli was good for you, mama, was it Ben Franklin when you saw him downtown, when you were a kiiiiiiid? Or can’t you remember anymore?”
“Everything in our school is old. Like from 1863. When mama was 13.”
“Yeah, mama used to work for her money. She would babysit for her money when she was kid. She earned her money. She even would babysit Jesus.”

Each of these is followed by a hasty “Buuuuuuuuuurn!” and a snicker behind the hand. Fire in the eye:. I am a brave one. I am fearless. I am pushing the envelope.

I like the reverential version better. The self-serving sycophant full of turgid prose. The one who has a paper due in the morning.

I thought I saw Jesus outside a pawn shop on my way home from work today. But it turned out to be a fat guy in a ratty old gray sweat suit smoking a cigarette. He was partially obscured by the totem pole in front of the window. What can I say? My eyes are old and tired and looking for a miracle. Kaileb must never know.