“Where will we live?” my fifteen year old son asked me last night when I mentioned that somebody may want to buy our apartment.
“Somewhere nice,” I answered. Honestly, I have no idea but I’m not going to worry him about it. I am a real estate agent after all. If anyone can find someplace to live I can.
“Maybe we should live in a hotel for a year,” he suggested.
“Great idea,” I agreed (not really). “We can all share one room.”
“Maybe we should reconsider,” he countered. I know what he was thinking:
His own hotel room with maid service every day (though I am the maid already, aren’t I?),
“Also, what about Grandpa?” I asked.
“The Dachshund?” he asked. He always called Grandpa “The Dachshund”. He and I were not fans of the name Grandpa, but I let my daughter name him. My son and I were voting for McLovin. I still think McLovin would have been the perfect name for Grandpa. He looks like a McLovin.
“Yes,” I replied. “The Dachshund.”
“I guess we should reconsider that decision,” my son said again.
So smart to let them think they are making the tough choices, isn’t it?