I realized today that not much has changed in the past twenty years of my life. It used to be I’d be out all night on the weekends, come home, take some aspirin with a big glass of water, put my smoke-infested clothes in the wash and I might even have headed back out at the call of a friend. I’d spend Sunday recooperating from a night out.

Now? I’ve been out all day, which means I’ve come inside, taken aspirin to help the joint pain in my hand (from digging up potatoes), allergy medicine with a big glass of water (weeding the strawberry patch), put my dirt and spray paint-covered clothes (shutters) in the wash and I will head back out in an hour to pick up my teenager from band competition. I’ll sleep late tomorrow recooperating from a day of outdoor chores today.

Forty? Bah. Same ol’ same ol’.

George has a new hobby. Scaring people. He likes to dress in camo (including branches sticking out of his pockets) and jump out at you from behind a bush when you visit his house. He likes to hide in pantry closet and scare his grandparents into early graves. Great new hobby of his, this George.

Last night I stayed at school with a teacher friend, both of us preferring to face the dark, empty parking lot together at the end of the evening. I organized and cleaned and asked her a million questions. She commented at one point that there were kids outside in the parking lot, in the pitch dark. “I think they are on bikes or something,” she said. “That’s why I hate being here alone. It’s creepy that they can see in the windows but I can’t see out.”

I agreed whole-heartedly, sharing about a time last year when I stayed late and completely freaked myself out walking out to my lone vehicle later that night.

I returned to my classroom and was sorting through papers on the counter in front of the wall of windows when all of a sudden George’s face appeared right up against the outside glass. “Hey Aunt Fred!” he laughed.

He.scared.the.crap.out.of.me.

Birdy was out there, too, although just trying to get my attention, not trying to make me pee my pants and die of a heart-attack. I went around to the front of the building and let in Jules and Bear and the kids. They had been out for dinner and knew I was at school so they swung by to say hello and wreak havoc on my now-clean and organized classroom. George couldn’t stop giggling about scaring me. I made him apologize to my friend for creeping her out as well. He still giggled.

Even when he left, after Birdy had hugged me several times promising her love for me (I assured her I didn’t doubt her concern for me, but that George…) George hollered back down the hall just before exiting the building to giggle and say he loved me.

I immediately began to plot revenge. I’ve had a few ideas, but I’m going to wait for that lightbulb moment that says I’ve got the most epic plan ever.

All I can say is, George, paybacks are h-e-double hockey sticks. Look out.

When navigating your way through the teenage years as a single mom with a son, do NOT read the book, Columbine. Flash picked it up out of curiosity at the dollar store (what better way to spend a buck?) and after he finished, I gave it a read.

Yeah. Bad idea.

As if I wasn’t terrified enough about not getting this push-pull, be-involved-but-not-overly-involved, how many questions are enough but not too many, do I really know my kid relationship just right already. Then you pick up a book about two boys who plotted to blow up their high school and successfully killed 13 before killing themselves, and you find out how many similarities your own child has with the lead killer.

As I would read before bed each night, I would holler down to Flash, “Hey, you’re not making pipe bombs in the basement, are you?” to try to laugh off how disturbing this book was.

“Nah. I’ve been making them in my closet.” He’d reply.

“And the napalm?”

“I’m having the same problems that Eric had, but I think I have it mostly figured out now.”

Ah, yes. The comforting banter of a teenager.

It’s all funny until you realize the killer had similar conversations, dropping hints and flat out telling details of his plan but no one took him seriously.

Pardon me, but I think I’m going to go search Flash’s closet. Anyone know what napalm looks like?

I should have known how the evening would go even before we arrived. When asked what he wanted to do for his birthday dinner, WG replied, “Are there other Italian restaurants around other than Olive Garden? I could really go for chicken parmesan, but I’d like to go someplace other than Olive Garden. There must be other choices other than Olive Garden.” I started to assure him that there were many other options when he interrupted me to say, “Oh, but I really do like the salads at Olive Garden. Let’s go to Olive Garden.”

To clarify, I said, “So you want to go to an Italian restaurant in town that is not Olive Garden but is Olive Garden?!” I should have known he wouldn’t even order chicken parm once he got there either.

Jules and Fam surprised WG by joining us for dinner at the Olive Garden that wasn’t but was actually Olive Garden. I’m still not sure if the look on WG’s face was excitement or dread. If nothing else, maybe he’ll learn from this experience and bring his own family for the next celebration. For your entertainment, I’ve included some excerpts from the conversation.

Discussing a factory job Jules and I both had in college, Bear reminded her that she at least worked in air conditioning. I reminded everyone that she was a table top stripper. “Mom was a stripper?!” George asked. His mother tried to explain that it was a printing term, but Birdy and Flash were laughing too hard to hear the legitimate explanation.

We learned from Birdy that girls can actually just call “dibs” on a boy. I didn’t realize. This might have changed my dating life dramatically. (WG said I could dib him if I wanted to. Whew.)

George, reading off the kids’ menu, “What is the Indian name for Naples?” (His fifth grade teacher would be so proud.)

Despite getting Indian confused with Italian, several of us at the table scored decently on George’s menu quiz. Except for Jules (and WG who believed that Mt. Vesuvius is a city) but we all know that strippers just aren’t that smart.

We helped George fill in the mad-lib on the menu as well. He went around the table asking us each for a different part of speech for the story. Flash needed to come up with an activity. He was futzing around with his straw and bits of napkin while he pondered the question, so when he finally declared that he just didn’t have any ideas, George filled in the blank with “pee shooter”. We tried to correct his spelling to make the activity a bit more pleasant, but George was too delighted with the idea of a urine shooter.

When the bill arrived, George asked why his dad was paying it and not his mom. Bear explained that strippers just don’t make that much money solidifying the odds that George will in fact explain to his teacher and class in the very near future that his mom, an active member of her small town community, is actually a stripper.

The fact that WG was so delighted to have my family join us for dinner further worries me. Who would endure conversations such as these, in public no less, and feel grateful for the opportunity?!

A crazy 40 year old man, I suppose. Happy Birthday, Part I, WG!

You wanted to know about MY first day? Oh fine.

Let’s see, first grade = color, cut, glue.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Yeah, many hours were spent after school was out today developing plans that do not involve crayons, scissors or glue. I’d be happy if they were just abolished.

And for the record,

SHOES ARE AN ABOMINATION TO SOCIETY. They are, perhaps, the worst part of all about going back to school.

177 school days to go.

I can do this.

I think.