My son is funny. Snarkywittyfunny.
He comes out with the most apt observations in such a deadpan, low-key way that you never see it coming.
I had been cleaning up after dinner and decided to get down on all fours to wipe up a smashed blackberry off the tile floor in the kitchen.
Fam had been walking past me, in and out of the garden, enjoying the still warm and sunny early evening while I was happily toiling away.
My erstwhile son came in from the deck and as he passed me on the floor, paused and delivered this perfectly timed line,
“How’s it going, Cinders?”
I had been so engrossed in my task that this unexpectedly struck my funny bone so hard and I gufffawed.
“Cinders! Oh good one, J!”
Trust my boy to assess the situation and release such an accurate quip.
There was no malice, no disrespect intended, no offense taken — he knows that I can take a joke and this was one that unerringly hit its mark.
I am a volunteer Cinderella; it’s a labor of love, I don’t mind at all.