Dear Kid,

To the driver who drove flew by me on this highway today:

You must be incredibly important to be going so fast.

I’m not exactly going below the speed limit, yet you were a mere flash as you zoomed past me on the highway.

Maybe you’re a surgeon on your way to a lifesaving emergency in the ER. Except you were heading away from the hospital.

Maybe you’re a lawyer on your way to argue a life or death case. Except you were driving away from the courthouse.

Maybe a fire fighter on your way to a 17-alarm blaze. Except I checked the news—not so much as an out of control candle in the area.

Whoever you are, I hope you saved a lot of time.

Time to feel badly about cutting off other drivers.

Time to chat with whichever police officer pulls you over for breaking the sound barrier on a major thoroughfare.

Time to recuperate and recover in the hospital after you plow into an unsuspecting guardrail.

You must really be important.

Not.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

No one on the planet can convey emotion (especially disgust, derision, and general put-upon-ness) as wordlessly and effectively as your sister.

It was an innocent question. Actually, it wasn’t so much innocent as expected. Moms have to ask certain questions; it’s in the rule book.

Apparently, teenagers have to react over act over over act in reaction to certain Mom questions.

Pi had borrowed my computer for a small moment. “Maybe,” she said in a reasonably loud, conversational tone, “I should just take the next one.”

To clarify, by “loud” I mean normal-ish tones for her which could be heard 3.4 miles away with the clarity of ringing crystal.

Normally, I can keep up with her when she jumps topics. This time I spoke before giving due time and consideration to what she’d just said.

“Huh?”

She was unimpressed with my response. “Nothing. Never mind. I’m not talking to you. Don’t. Worry. About. It.”

This recital was accompanied by a sigh so heavy the house’s foundation sank 6 inches.

At that point I realized what she was talking about, but in the face of turning our first floor into a subterranean split level I chose “B. Never Mind.” and never minded.

A few minutes later she gave me back my computer. We still had 15 minutes before evening devotionals (America’s Got Talent) came on.

That’s when I made the Mom Mistake.

I can’t say it was a rookie mistake because I’m not a rookie. And I knew full well what I was doing. I completely understood the risk involved but figured with the approaching AGT I was well within my parental rights.

“Is all your homework done?” I asked gently.

Pi looked up from her phone. Clearly, these were fightin’ words not a question worthy of response. There was eye-rolling. There was a look of complete disbelief combined with a heavy dose of “Seriously?”.

I waited.

She continued to not answer.

The silence sat.

The air dripped with unspoken sarcasm.

Her eyebrows screamed, “You are completely ridiculous and I am showing great restraint by not explaining this to you in detail.”

All I wanted was an answer.

I didn’t get one.

But that homework better be done.

Love, Mom