My son likes to talk. A lot. Today alone, my son talked about:
- The airplane that went down earlier this week; the cockpit door, all about how it locks, details about the locking mechanism, and his engineering solution for fixing the lock issue in the future; the potential of having cameras in the cockpit; the pros and cons of never letting one person alone in the cockpit.
- What makes up the perfect barbecue: details, details, and more details.
- Some college basketball player who plays for like Wisconsin or something. My kid knows every detail about this player’s life and game.
- March Madness, March Madness, March Madness. Every game, every win, every loss. Scores and all.
- His plans for carrying a sofa out on our flat room and making a clubhouse. (Uh, NO!)
- F-2 bombers, their cost, and the defense companies that build them.
- A solution for us to put an extra bedroom in our house, or to finish the attic by knocking down a door, losing a closet, and finishing the attic.
- Drones. Drones that … well I confess I forget because I stopped listening for a tiny moment maybe.
- Alex Rodriguez. Enough said.
- How sharks eat blubber, and how humans don’t have enough blubber, but if you look like a blubbery seal, you might just get eaten. Great white sharks, nurse sharks, sand sharks. I lost count. Shark teeth, lots about shark teeth.
- How if we got a dog – theoretically of course – he will do the research to find an airplane that will allow us to take the dog across country on vacation with us this summer.
- How we should all have a cooking contest, just like Chopped, when we’re on our family vacation. He will take the entree because he has secret plans. Top secret.
- The greatest general of all time. The worst general of the first World War. Why he was the worst general. The best place to live in the world. The best sport to make yourself famous. The best college. The best pizza in NY.
I’m missing so much here – it all blurs together. Someday soon he won’t want to talk to me at all, right? I know that day is coming, and I hate to even imagine it.