All dry and 35

It was raining lightly on Friday when I went to pick up the kids from school.  I managed to swing by the house with time enough to spare to run in and get everyone's umbrellas.

The rain wasn't all that bad, but I know as soon as I am at the farthest point from the van, sans umbrellas, the heavens will open and we'd become a family of drowned rats.  Besides, the kids love their umbrellas.

Audrey was thrilled when she saw that I had hers, and promptly opened it, brandishing it with gusto, endangering the eyesight of everyone around her.

We went for Ryan next, and his class was just letting out.  I walked in and he came up to me, ready to go.   "Where's my umbrella?"  he asked.   I held up the handle.  "Right here,"  I said.

"Moo-om,"  he said, as he looked at it as though it was a bucket of snakes, "that's not mine."  "Yes, it is,"  I said, holding it out to him.  He wouldn't take it.  I held the dinosaur handle up and showed him:  "See?"  He sighed a little, exasperated.  "Mom.  I thought you were getting me a new one."   "There's nothing wrong with this one, it's just a little small,"  I insisted, again thrusting it towards him.  "That's not mine.  I can't carry that..."  he said, a wrinkle across his nose, disgust on his face as he announced disdainfully, almost haughtily, "...it's childish."

What are you, 35?  Childish??  I stifled a giggle.  "I will look for one like Ben's over the weekend,"  I promised.

(Ben's is plain black, and quite grown up.  Audrey has a pink Littlest Pet Shop one.  Mine?  It's an enormous rainbow paneled mombrella, and if I opened it strategically, I could use it as a weapon.)

Sigh.  I remember when I bought two dinosaur umbrellas and a Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle one too, and it seems like yesterday.  Now when the older boys hold them, I resist the urge to hand them a drink to stick them in, they look that small in their hands.

I handed it to him anyway.  "Just use if for now,"  I pleaded.  "Fine," he agreed, "But only for today."

As he walked out of the room, I looked at his teacher, who had caught most of the exchange and stifled a giggle of her own at "childish."

"Have a nice weekend," I said.

I couldn't help myself, I added: 

"He'll be reporting to school on Monday in a smoking jacket and ascot."

There are times when I wonder if he's ever going to stop acting like "the baby".

And then there are times when he's the oldest nine year old I know.