So this child, not mine, walks in my house and says, “Mom, Lisa’s embarrassed to come in because she’s high.”
(Needless to say, Lisa is not her name.)
I didn’t react, so he repeated himself.
Oh, I realized, processing. He’s calling ME Mom. Cool with that.
Then the rest of what he says kicks in.
“She’s embarrassed?” He confirms. “Because she’s high?” He confirms again.
The child in question is 20, I’m pretty sure, and we’ve known her for years. I’m not sure what to make of her embarrassment and announce, “I’m going to go hug her.”
I padded outside and didn’t hug her, as it would have been the first time ever and highly suspicious, but I did invade the conversation that was going on and pointedly admire her sneakers. She answered politely, but kept turning her face away.
I don’t think any less of her. But I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to mess with her.