gibknits

Scenario: A small cubicle in an office. Mom has been going through a program line-by-line for the last several hours, trying to find an error in the code. Makeup has been rubbed off, hair is askew.

The phone rings.

Mom answers: “This is Kim,”

13 year-old son: “Hi, Mom! Hey, guess what? I have a surprise for you when you get home!”

Mom smiles, thinking of cold macaroni and cheese, or a freshly mown lawn: “You do?”

Son: “Yep! Hey, do we have any drill bits?”

Oh. My. God. He’s using the Power Tools. See, my front doorknob has been sticking for awhile now, and sometimes I have to take it apart & put it back together in order for it to work. Apparently Joey has tired of this little routine, so he went to Walmart while I was at work, picked out and purchased a new doorknob/deadbolt set, and was installing it as we were speaking.

He got as far as the doorknob. The porthole deadbolt is another matter.

What’s up with all the dirt and grease all over the door? Does the kid ever wash his hands? Ugh. I don’t wanna know. I’m trying to tell myself that the kid is taking care of his mom, being the Man Of The House, and I can put up with some grease and grime.

He tinkered with the deadbolt the rest of the night, shrugging me off every time I asked if I could help. Finally, to keep myself from hovering, I started working on another pincushion.

Somebody stop me. I’m feeling a pincushion-induced manic episode coming on.

Scenario: Mom goes around the house turning out the lights, getting ready for bed. As she nears the front door, she ooohs and ahhs over the new hardware, and the installation of said hardware.

“Hey, Mom?”

“You owe me twenty bucks for the doorknob. Goodnight! Love you!

Yep. That’s my boy.