So my son walks into our bathroom this morning, still groggy from waking up.
He staggers over to me, looks up at me, and queries, "Hey, dad, it's Thursday, right?"
I reply, "Sure is, pal. Why d'you ask?"
He looks me in the eye and answers, "Because that means tomorrow's Friday!"...
Seven years old and he's got the weekend itch. This does not bode well...
That is all.
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2 comments:
When I was four-/five-years-old, Thursday nights were pregnant with promise for me, because Friday, after school, meant I got to sleep over Aunt Myrna & Uncle Danny's house (a sixth floor apartment on Bedford Avenue, a few miles away from where Ebbets Field used to stand).
We three, along with Cousin Barry (their son), and his fiancee, my Cousin Beth, would eat supper together - usually something yummy, like chicken cutlets and melted mozzarella cheese, with heaping piles of melty, cheesy macaroni & cheese - and then watch the Dukes of Hazzard and the Incredible Hulk, and other cool Friday night programs.
The best Friday night of the year would be when The Wizard of Oz came on. Aunt Myrna would have to gently remind me, "Bubele...chew your food."
Those weekends that my aunt and uncle decided, instead of hanging out with their favorite niece (me) that they wanted to go to Atlantic City, I was crushed. I felt so betrayed, and begged them that I could wear lippitz (lipstick) if they would please take me with them.
Treasure these wonderful times with your boy, because he'll look back on them one day and his impressions of them now are make or break in the future. Sounds like you got nothin' to worry about.
:-)
(Sorry about the long comment...I haven't been on the computer all day long and musta had a writing itch.)
Mine does the same thing. Every Thursday without fail.
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