When I'm 100 years old...

I retrieved the following from a stack of things I'm keeping to commemorate Jack's successful venture through Grade One. Without further ado, I present his compelling, narrative-style 4-page novella, which incidentally started out rather strong - my proud smile cracking my face - right up to the pivotal point of gradual descent into questionable territory. More often than not, my children prevent me from lingering in the lairs of pride, thus saving me from holding court with the seven deadly sins.

I have so very much to be thankful for...

Me: Why do you look so sad, Jack? And what's with the hair?

 

Jack: I'm so sad because I'm so old I need a walking stick.

My hair looks like that because I'm too tired to walk to get it cut at that place.

Look, I'm about to fall because I've dropped my walking stick.

 

For the record, upon reading this I didn't jump to conclusions immediately.

I held on tightly to my modicum of faith in the Catholic school system.

After all, he could easily have meant chamber pot...flower pot...cooking pot...

not necessarily hanging out with a bag full of pot. 

As I was about to gently, yet firmly, ask after his affinity

for an imminent move to British Columbia,

 he read the thing out loud for me.

 

Jack: I'll spend my money on a walking stick, spend my time with my pet,

and spend my time playing with my grandchildren.

 

Me: Ah, silly Mommy! I thought it said you were going to spend time with your pot.

 

Jack: It says my PET, Mom. Why would I spend time with my pot?

 

Me: No reason. Oh look, and you're going to have grandchildren!!! Wow! How cool.

 

Jack: Yeah, that's how old I'm going to be. That's why I look so tired and so crazy.

 

Me: Makes perfect sense to me.