Conversations with an eleven year old

As I was shuttling the boys to Scouts, I asked my eleven year old son Aidan if he knew a boy in his grade named Larry. (I have changed the name on the outside chance he or his parents somehow come across this account and take me to the cleaners, as the say, for defamation of character.)

Aidan said, “Oh yea, I know Larry, he is the biggest cry baby I have ever seen…ever.”

“Oh, really?” I answered.  “He has never cried on my bus.  (I drive a school bus, which knowing makes this part of the story much easier to follow.)

“He doesn’t ride the bus.”  Aidan said.

“Yes, he does.  He is the short kid who plays trombone in the band.”

“Oh…that Larry.”  Aidan said surprised.  “I'm thinking of a different Larry.  The Larry I am referring to cries every time someone looks at him.  Last year at school, he cried because no one wanted to sit with him during lunch because he cried.  I think that is called a vicious circle if my memory serves me.  (Yes he actually said that.)

“That is kind of sad, actually.” I answered.

“Yes, I suppose.  Oh, and guess what?”

“What?”

“When we went to Biz Town last year, he was a reporter just like me.  Except, guess what?”

“What?” I sighed.

“He only wrote one story, and it wasn’t even about Biz Town.  Do you know what it was about?”

“Nope, can’t say that I do.” I answered.

“Horses.”

“Horses?”

“Yea, horses.  I told him that he couldn’t write a story about horses.  And, do you know what he did?”

“Aah…started crying?” I offered.

“Exactly.  That’s when I told him that he needed to go over to a bench they had by this one wall, and to sit down and write a story about something to do with Biz Town.  A little while later I saw him sitting on the bench and when I walked over to him, guess what he was doing?”

“Writing a story about cows?” I ventured.

“No, he was doing a crossword puzzle.  And guess what?”

“What?”

“The crossword was about horses.  The whole thing was really bazaar.  A travesty really.”