So...we are going to KFC to pick up dinner. I've been guarding a friends blog, and all we had was yucky leftovers.
Last time I rode with Ben driving, I nearly had a heart attack. I swear, he was 5 feet behind the car in front of him going 60 miles an hour. I started screaming and crying hysterically, flailing my arms. Well, maybe I just spoke up quite loudly--
"Get back, get back, get back, get back, GET BACK!!!!
He hasn't asked me along since. Ingrate. Who do you think taught him to drive? All the hours, this is the thanks I get.
"You're riding in the back seat. I don't care what you say..."
"NO I AM NOT RIDING IN THE BACK SEAT".
"You aren't telling me how to drive. You make me nervous."
"I'M NOT RIDING IN THE BACK SEAT."
We take off, headed towards the fast food joint. I have to give directions. It seems like he is going awfully fast to me...
I notice the trees along the creek on the way. They are deciduous leaves and are turning. (Fall has finally arrived here in the South.) They were so tall and thin when green, I had always thought they were pines.
"Look at those trees. I think they might be birches." (Me)
"No they aren't, they're pines."
"No they are deciduous, they are losing their leaves."
"You are losing your leaves."
"No, I'm not. You are being a pine in the rear."
"Don't be such a birch".
"You can be so deciduous." (Me, kind of at a loss for trees.)
"Oh, go ficus yourself".
I am a little annoyed, but I laugh. I know he didn't mean it. Because, if he did, he's getting his mouth washed out with soap. And I'm telling Grandma.
You see what happened there? We NEVER talk. We only banter.
When Ben was young, he had a "semantic-pragmatic disorder". Which meant, he didn't learn to talk the way most kids do. I used to cry and cry, afraid he would lose what little communication skills he had, that he would "regress". Ben has no good memories of me when I was in the worry mode. I worried even though my family told me there was "nothing wrong with Ben." I thought I knew better.
I asked him, although he hates to talk about it.
"When did I change? When did I quit worrying?"
"I don't want to talk about it, Ma..."
"No, really Ben. I want to know if you can remember that I changed."
"It was sometime when we lived in Columbia." referring to a time between his age 7 and 12.
I KNOW when it was. It was 5th grade. He was 10 years old. He had a teacher who actually wanted him in his class. She asked for him.
"I had a lot of trouble in 5th grade. I used to have so much trouble with homework." she tells me. It's the closest she ever came to telling me that she was Dyslexic, too. Her last name was Hunt. God, knowing how easily distracted I am, slapped me up the side of the head and used a foghorn with her name being the same as my mentor and Ben's Godmother.