It’s always enlightening to have one’s foibles pointed out.  “Do I really say that?”  “I sound like that?  Really?”  Sometimes it’s not even necessary to seek confirmation.

This morning as Hugh rummaged in the pantry to make his lunch (see post labeled Sifting Crumbs from Cheezits, last week), he said, “Malcolm honey, would you run down to the basement and see if we have any granola barsthankyou!”  Like me, he didn’t put a question mark after “bars” – he ran straight into the statement of gratitude which forces the other person to agree – theoretically.  And, of course, no guy would ever call his brother “honey.”

I said “You’re imitating me, aren’t you?” and he admitted it, with a smile.  Hugh is a talented mimic, and luckily for him, I was amused by his act this morning.  In fact, I like to think of it as an homage – a tribute to my speaking style – not mockery. 

After all that effort to find granola bars, boss his brother around in the style of his mother, and finish packing his lunch like a good kid, you’ll never guess what I found upon returning home from driving the boys to school.  Hugh’s neatly packed brown bag.  On the kitchen counter.   Where he left it when he went to put on his shoes, before getting distracted by some bright shiny object.

I have resolved not to chauffeur it back over to him.   Today he’ll have to beg for crumbs from the lunches of his friends.  And maybe that will teach him to put the darn lunch in his backpack the instant he finishes making it.   Tough love – better late than never.

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