John John is a bit of a fraidy cat. Example: He’s been sending his little sister to go turn on lights in dark rooms since she was about 2 1/2. When I say ‘boo,’ his screams echo far longer than Koko’s. There are no two ways about it – brave in that way, he is not.
Recently at dinner, he was recounting some scary experience he had had recently, nay, shared with Koko recently. Maybe it was something on TV that he thought was scary. The actual item is unimportant.
“Koko and I are both scardey-cats, right Papa?” He asks John for confirmation and reassurance.
“Well, yes,” says John, it seems the ever obliging dad. But no.
“Except Koko’s is a function of her age.”
Stated so matter-of-factly that the meaning is totally lost on John John, who just agrees, “yeah.”
Meanwhile, I’m busting a gut over in the corner by myself trying not to draw any attention.
John John has requested some fruit after finishing his meal, and he is allowed. He departs to the kitchen to choose said fruit, and wash and clean it for consumption. This latter period is taking some time.
“Is everything OK back there?” I ask worriedly.
“Yes, and you will all be so amazed at what I am making to share with you,” he lets me know.
The time finally comes, and he bring out a bowl of nectarines and peaches which he has cut up for everyone in our familiy’s consumption. They are, certainly, delicious.
“Aren’t you happy that I’m sharing so well?” he asks me in a weird reverse humble moment. Just as I am busy eye-rolling John across the table, John John pipes in with his other wisdom:
“Peaches are mammals.”
A better parent than I would not have laughed as hard. I did try to keep it in, long enough for him to eek out, “I know, because of their fuzzy hair.”
I either aged 10 years, or got back the same. Not sure which, not sure that it matters.