A few weeks ago, Max was working in his handwriting workbook, and he came across a task that did not impress him. He was supposed to write words with "tri" prefixes and then - this was the annoying part - draw pictures. He drew a series of exaggeratedly childish pictures, then flopped the book in front of me, smug.
"See? I drew a PORCUPINE."
"Yes. But you were supposed to write words that start with 'tri'."
He looked at the book, then walked away and scribbled. He returned and announced, "It wasn't a porcupine, it was a TRICUPINE."
I looked at the book. Under the picture he had written "Trikzupyne." I gave him the single raised eyebrow.
"The Z is silent," he assured me, with a wide-eyed nod.
And that's my Max. I mean, yes he has other qualities that are more important, and probably even other qualities that define him more. He's complex and smart and currently suffering from hormone poisoning. He's thoughtful and notices people to an extent that could almost verge on Machiavellian. But if you asked me to tell you about Max, I would probably start off with, "lord, that kid makes me laugh. And he suffers no fools."
"Trikzupyne" has become Max's standard flippant answer. For instance, if I should ask what, for the love of all that is good and right, is that SMELL, Max will answer, "Oh, that was the trikzupyne. The Z isn't the only thing that's silent!"
Max does like a good smart-mouthed comment. For instance, right here, as we were walking into the hairdresser's shop today, I said "your hair is just so AMAZING." And he looked at me and said, dead-pan, "No, really? Well, why didn't anyone ever TELL ME THAT?"
This is more funny if you've ever gone anywhere with Max. Strangers comment on his hair all the time, and even reach out and touch it sometimes, as though they can't help themselves. It's thick and glossy and those waves just HAPPEN.
...was finally the day.
We pulled it into two pony tails (which I solemnly promised not to post pictures of), and chopped them off to send to Locks of Love. And in just minutes, I saw the face I remembered emerging out from under all that hair.
And here he's getting tired of me telling him how cool he looks. He's informing me that when I, his MOTHER, say something is "cool" I am automatically draining it of any actual coolness.