My fourteen-year-old son and his friend, John, row for a local crew association. I pride myself on being an on-time mom, unfortunately, all the other children have ten-minute-early moms, so when I arrived to pick the boys up, they were standing alone in a dark parking lot.
Cole jumped in the car. “Why are you late?” he asked.
I pointed to the dash-board clock. “I’m not late. I’m right on time.”
“Oh,” Cole replied. “We got out early and John was afraid of the dark parking lot.”
From the back seat John said, “I would like to go on record here; I was not afraid of the dark parking lot.”
“Yes, he was,” Cole said. “He was crying and screaming and crying and screaming, and I had to punch him in the face to get him to stop.”
“Again, I would like to go on record here,” John said. “I was not crying and screaming, and Cole never punched me.”
“Yes, I did,” Cole replied. “But John kept whimpering because he was worried we might get raped in the dark parking lot.”
John leaned toward the front seat. “I wasn’t worried about being raped. And besides, if anyone was going to be raped, Cole would be the main attraction for that.”
My son looked down at his feet. “Oh, God,” he said. “That’s probably true.”