Okay, so maybe it’s my fault, at least in part. After all, it was my idea to name our son after a long line of lawyers and judges from my side of the family. The first, my beloved great uncle Carlos Victor Davila is, in fact a retired Supreme Court judge in Puerto Rico, so I guess it was inevitable that my kid would show lawyerly qualities. In retrospect my husband and I have realized there were signs as early as five years old.
"Dad, can I have a brownie?"
"No Carlos, I told you, not before dinner."
"But Dad, you said no candy before dinner. Brownies aren't candy."
"No cake either, Carlos, can't you see I'm trying to cook here?"
"But Dad, brownies aren't really cake either."
It only gets worse from there. Everything is negotiated with this kid, from television time to how much ice cream he gets for dessert. And God help you if there is any hole in your argument, 'cause he will find it and try to wear you down. But lately his skills are leaning towards the dark side of the force.
One night a few years ago he called me at the office to ask if he could go to a friend's house instead of to his caregivers.
"Well, that depends… how was your day at school?" I inquired.
You see, Carlos is a class clown and seems incapable of restraining himself from making smart comments at inappropriate times (I swear he gets it from his father, but no one seems to believe me). So my husband and I often hear from his teacher about his shenanigans. (God, I never thought I would use that word — I must be getting old.)
"Well, my day was fair…" he says, the words at the end of the sentence rising up in that thin, begging-like, whiny sound which grates through my nerves like teeth on a rusted tin can. "I reaaalllly want to go to Ian's, Mom! The rest of the week will be great, I promise!"
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1 - diana hartman
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