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?”

*pause*

*long pause*

*awkward pause*

“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?”

*pause*

“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?”

Um…

I guess.

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.

*sigh*

There’s a chance I was never cool to begin with…