As I’d expected, I found my teenage son sitting on the stoop, knees near his chest, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
“Ok, I give” I said; “what exactly is it you’re doing now?”
what you told me to do” he answered without moving a single muscles
besides the one that waggled his tongue against his teeth.
“I told you to mow the lawn” I said bluntly, “ and by the looks of it, not a blade has been trimmed so far.”
“No I meant what you told me before that” he said. “I’ve gotta do things in the order you tell them to me or I get confused.”
“Ok then, what was it I told you to do before telling you to mow?”
“”You said I should learn to think for myself! So I’m practicing!”
was not exactly revolutionary that my son spent every farthing of his
creative capital devising dodges. The neighborhood was full of
adolescent con men and women.
“In a minute I’ll give you something you can really think about” I said with a tinge of Arnold Schwartzenegger in my voice.
“Alright, alright” he whined as he moved toward the mower; “but be aware that I don’t have this thinkin’ thing mastered yet!”