Last night, the #1 son came downstairs to show me the newest Android app he is working on. As he started back up the stairs, I spied a stain on his shorts. That's because somebody needs to notice when it's time for somebody to do the laundry.
"Hey, what's on your pants? Did you drop fast food in your seat again?" That's because when he used to ride shotgun in T-Hoe, he was noted for soiling his clothing right after I told him to be careful and leave the burger in the wrapper. "Watch out. You're going to get that all over your clothes you've been wearing for thirty minutes." No matter how much he proclaimed that he was smarter than that, and I was silly for treating him like toddler, the very next bite would result in a hunk of greasy goodness dropping from his sandwich.
"I don't have anything on me."
"You do. Come here. I'll point it out." I picked up my red wooden backscratcher, the one that is great for doing impressions of Kristen Wiig on SNL as the singer with the tiny hands. I told #1 to turn around, and pointed to the back of his shorts leg. There was a dark stain on the khaki.
"Um. That's not a stain. I was sitting on my chair with my leg under me. That's a sweat print from my foot." And to prove it, he lifted that dripping man-hoof and touched my real flesh-and-blood forearm with it. I needed to towel off the perspiration.
Somebody really needs to use antiperspirant on his feet.