Sometimes, when I find myself repeating the same funny story about my kids a million times over, it makes its way into the hoped-for posterity of my blog. This is such a story.
(P.S. Jack, when you’re 30 and you call BS on this tale, let me assure you it happened exactly as I have transcribed it here.)
Jack came home from school earlier in the week, and he was kind of upset.
Me: Hey, what’s wrong? You seem bummed.
Jack, near tears: Mom, my friends made fun of you all day. I had to defend you from the beginning of school until the end.
Me: Oh, crap, Jack, did they find my blog?
Me: Honey, what in the world were they saying? Why did you have to defend me?
Jack: They...sniff...they said...
...fingers tapping...encouraging raised eyebrows...get on with it, dude...
They said, “Yo mama drives a truck!”
They said, “Yo mama is so old, she walked into an antique store and they kept her!”
Me, trying very, very hard not to laugh: Sweetheart, thank you for defending me. But “yo mama” jokes are a type of joke, and they’re not really jokes about me.
Jack, relieved: Really? They weren’t talking about you?
No, honey. But thanks for sticking up for me.
Jack: Well, it didn’t make sense anyway. I told them you drive an SUV.
Ba dum bum.
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