"Come on, Tommy, let’s take some pictures,” I urged.
“I’m too old for pictures.”
“What? You’re ten! Don’t you know I’ll be taking pictures of you for the rest of your life?”
“You’ll be dead before me so that’s not possible.”
“Well. My point is I’m taking pictures of you. So let’s go.”
“That’s not a smile! You need a haircut.”
“No! I like my hair long. I’m growing it long like Spencer in iCarly.”
“Just look happy, Tommy.”
“That’s better! Now can you—”
“Mom! I don’t want to alarm you but there is a spider next to us!”
Neither of us likes spiders. His father doesn’t like spiders either. So when one gets in the house, we’re arguing who gets to deal with it.
“The man deals with it!” I always insist. “You all act big and strong, surely you can deal with a spider!”
Tom’s like, “Eff that, I hate spiders.”
Then I say, “Okay, so you’ll give up your LIFE for your country but you can’t deal with a spider?”
“Pretty much. Yes.”
So yeah. It was no surprise that Tommy wasn’t thrilled to be near a spider.
We moved away from the spider.
Tommy was much happier.
And to get him to smile, all we had to do was discuss farts.
Then he did a random dance:
I have no idea what he’s doing here.
Ten-year-olds are weird.