Once Upon a Time, I was cool. Or I thought I was. I was informed yesterday by my oldest, and ever so wise, child that I’m “not really cool now, so much.”
“Really? What am I, then?”
“Geesh. Don’t answer to quickly, ‘kay?”
“Well,” he says, clearly thinking hard, “It’s just that I’m not sure.”
“So I’m not even a little bit cool?”
“When I make you pancakes for breakfast – is that cool?”
“No. That’s more awesome.”
“When I wash your clothes and drive you places – is that cool?”
“Not really. That’s more stuff you’re s’posed to do.”
Oh no he di’int.
“When I play games with you – is that cool?”
“No. That’s fun, though. Hey can we play Uno tonight?”
“So I’m really not cool, huh?”
“Nope,” he says with a shrug. “But you’re awesome and fun and you do things you’re s’posed to do. So that’s good right?”
Excuse me while I go look for my cool pants. I know they’re in my closet somewhere. Probably right behind my fat pants and next to my sweatpants.
There’s a chance I was never cool to begin with…