Blue Eyes

I went shopping with my rat today.  The six people who read my series Say It Ain’t So:Rats in the Basement might remember that I referred to my older son as my rat because he can survive anything (including me).  I said before and I’ll say again that if a bomb went off this afternoon, it would be Milwaukee’s rats and my son divvying up what’s left of the local McDonald’s.

Anyway, my relationship with my son is interesting, complicated and frustrating.  Occasionally, it’s incredibly fun and hilarious, especially when I let him talk me into doing something.  I’m not a complete sucker for his charms but pretty close.

When my husband heard my son  bubbameisting me about going shopping, I knew he would worry that I would buy the guy a car or refurnish his apartment because I actually once did one of these things.  But no, my mission today was to redress the absence of a birthday present (he turned 27 a few months ago) by going to Sports Authority to buy him baseball cleats.  I love supporting anything involving sports.  It’s so healthy.

So naturally, the trip to Sports Authority didn’t end with a pair of shoes.  If I write what else we walked out with, my husband will see it.  Suffice to say, one cannot buy a car at Sports Authority.

One thing that we both got were new swim goggles.  I needed goggles because I’m about to start a Master’s Swim class that is offered in a public high school.  This means that every morning the school engineer dumps a couple of gallons of chlorine in the pool so there is a big risk I will go blind without goggles, much as I hate to wear them.

There isn’t a point to this story except that I had a good time with my son and sometimes that feels a little rare.  So it was noteworthy, blog worthy.

“You love that boy,” my husband said this morning. “That boy’s your heart.”

What? Who stole my husband and replaced him with Dr. Phil?  But like Dr. Phil, everyone once in a while, he nails it.

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