Wishing You Weren't Here

Dang that numero uno boy!

I was all ready to write the most scathingly brilliant post about our pup Juno's naughty antics today, and here he came with a letter to proofread. Not that I'm not a good proofreader. I rock at proofreading. I'm a world class proofreader. Olympic caliber, even. I thirst for opportunities to strike out and underline. I yearn for them. But it does put the kibosh on my creativity.

I tell myself that in two years time, I will be wishing #1 was here bothering me, instead of off at college, out from under my thumb, loose from the apron strings, where I cannot gripe at him to my heart's content. Hold on a minute. I had something in my eye.

He is preparing a letter for his robot team. They need to solicit donors to help defray the cost of competitions. Yep. It's robot season. Bet you knew that already though. Last year, his team was ranked 12th in Missouri, and made it to the final four of state competition. And it was their very first year. The team has grown from four members to ten. That means more t-shirts, and more cars to drive them, and more food money. The school pays for most of their equipment and robot parts and entry fees and overnight lodging. But they have to pay for the rest, unless they can get sponsors. Guess who's on the sponsor bandwagon? Yep. That would be me. Let somebody else feed and clothe him and buy his fancy gewgaws.

But two years from now, I will be wishing he was here asking me for that stuff. Hey. Something's in my eye again.