I’m A Boy Mom
I pan fried a couple of steaks.
They turned out very tasty.
But the kitchen filled with smoke.
I had to open up the back door to clear the air.
The open door let in about a billion flies.
Luckily, the Grown Son is quite handy with a fly swatter.
It was actually kind of impressive.
All I ever do is scatter the flies around.
I never actually smash one.
The Grown Son proudly deposited each dead bug onto a napkin so that he could keep count.
It was gross, but it was effective, so I couldn’t complain.
I made him throw the mess in the garbage.
He can take a picture if he wants a memento.
“We’re not keeping the dead flies,” I informed him.
After all these years of being a boy mom, this isn’t even close to the weirdest thing I’ve ever said.
Liz Brenner
Everyone has a story to tell.
Even you.
Especially you.
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