Little boy toys are like Barbie shoes: nothing has its match, and there seem to be 80 pairs of one.  Clutter had overtaken me once again.

“My house is trashed.  Trashed, I tell you.”

I was being melodramatic, throwing myself across the kitchen counters, very reminiscent of 15-year-old me when I didn’t want to do whatever I didn’t want to do.

My mom (also reminiscent of the parent she was of a melodramatic teenage girl) didn’t look up from the computer.  She said, “You’ll survive.”

I held my splayed pose and turned only my face toward her, with further drama.

“What?!  I thought for sure you’d give me sympathy for this, after all those years I spent trashing your house.”

Still, she didn’t look up.  Deadpan.

“That’s how I know you’ll survive.”

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