Torturing the teenagers

So McIrish and I had to do an errand the other night—buy some wine for gifts. Our outing coincided with picking up Dearest Son from his cross country meet. He climbed into the truck, and I told him we had to do an errand before we went home.

Dearest Son, in a rather grumpy, teenagerish voice: “What kind of errand?”

McIrish, totally on the fly: “A singing errand.”

DS: “A singing errand? What does that even mean?”

Choir Boy Singing HymnMe, catching the ball and running with it: “Daddy has a friend in a nursing home, someone who lives in his fire district, and it’s his birthday, so a bunch of people are going to sing to him. I told everyone you had a nice voice, so you’re going to sing first.”

A long pause followed. DS: “No. I’m not.”

At this point, McIrish and I lost it and began wheezing with laughter.

DS: “Are you guys making this up?”

McIrish high-fived me. “I just said singing errand, and Mommy ran with it.”

parentsMe: “Into the end zone, baby! Touchdown!”

DS: “Uh-huh. The thing is, a singing errand is exactly what you two would do.”

Me: “You know what I’m in the mood for? Singing. Let’s swing by the nursing home.”

DS: “I can’t believe this.” Some muttering followed, possibly about the desire for adoption.

When we got to the package store, Dearest Son was most helpful carrying stuff. Because it sure beat singing in front of a group of old folks. : )

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