As the family ate breakfast, the two boys became rambunctious. They flopped and moaned and threw flatware and came dangerously close to the shrieks that so often accompany children of a certain age
. One of the boys came over to me and made direct eye contact. “Hello,” I thought was the best thing to manage. “You’re old.” He shot back. I wasn’t sure what was the smart way to proceed, so I gave him a “I have a son a little younger than you.” “How do you know how old I am,” he tried. Well, that threw me for a loop. “Your height more than anything. What, are you about three?” He cocked his head like I asked him if he elephant the boingo pop a’smofee. Mom came over and put her hands over his ears protectively. “We don’t count age like that. We don’t believe in the patriarchy telling us how old our children have to be.” I shrugged. She went on. “Our boys will be judged by their deeds, not how many times this planet has revolved around the sun. That’s the old way, and we do not approve. It is as asinine as thinking that the position of the visible stars in the sky will have something to do with what kind of man he will grow up to be, thinking that he should mature a certain amount just because the Penis Mob decided that the Mother Earth has moved in another circle.” Well, I wasn’t going to fight with a lady like that, so I returned to my bacon.