We have a rule in our house; no one talks to Mommy before her second cup of coffee. My husband instituted the mandate early in our marriage; he is a smart, smart man. Blissfully caffeinated by 7:00am, my fourteen year old son and I sat on the couch watching the news. Glancing at the half empty mug in my hand, he cautiously pulled a large throw pillow between us for protection.
“Mom, what’s with all the government shutdown junk?”
How to explain budget deficits and political agendas to an eighth grader?
“It’s kind of complicated, pal.”
“Don’t you write about this stuff?”
He had me there.
Think Mom, think. “I guess it’s like a sandbox; two groups of kids who both want the bigger pile for their castle.” (Best I could do at that hour of the day.)
“Mom,” look of utter disdain here. “I’m fourteen, not four. I get it, it just seems dumb. If they don’t get what they want, they just give up? Stupid.”
My son has a sinister smile. “If they don’t agree will school be closed?”
“No, nice try.”
“So they get to stop working, but I still have to go to school?”
“I hope a cat pees in their sandbox.”
He’s going to be president someday.