Mini Mogul

Jesse has always absolutely loved money. He used to beg for coins in infancy and then sit happily playing with quarter for hours.
In preschool, he spent much time counting coins over and over.
Since neither Mick nor I seem to have much of an interest in, or, sadly, a knack for, raking in the green, I'm not sure where this passion came from.
So, the other day at school, a mom stopped to tell me that Jesse was, essentially, trying to extort money from her son. Apparently, the boy (let's call him Freddie), had, upon leaving the house that morning, muttered "Shoot, I forgot my seven dollars."
When his mom queried him further, Freddie spilled the beans. Jesse and an accomplish had told Freddie that Jesse's mom had started a blog about him.
To gain visual admittance to the aforementioned blog, Freddie needed to pay Jesse $7.
Freddie's mom wisely put the kibosh on Jesse's plan.
When I asked Jesse, he, of course, denied all knowledge of the $7 request. Then he blamed it on a friend. Finally, he gave in.
"Oh, alright. I did it!" he said. "But he agreed. So what's the problem?"
Spoken like a true capitalist.

Query Weary

I know all too well never (NEVER!!!) to ask my children if they have any questions. About anything. Because what I'll get in return is bombardment with multiple, rapid-fire queries on topics ranging from the man in the moon to chocolate milk to parking lots.
"Mom, is there really a man in the moon? How do we know it's a man and not a woman?" Has anyone met the guy?
"What kind of chocolate is in chocolate milk? How do they get the chocolate in there? Do they melt it? Why does the chocolate in the container look all pebbly?"
"Do you have to pay to put the car in a parking lot? Why can't we keep a car in our apartment? How about a pool? Can we have a pool in the living room?"
So, never do I solicit questions. It's a matter of self-preservation.
Our lovely pediatrician, Dr. C., however, doesn't apparently know this.
So after Seth and Jesse's eight-year-checkup, which involved two naked boys hiding under the table crying while she attempted to give them their shots, Dr. C., made the fatal error.
"Any questions, guys?"
There followed a 20-minute session that had Dr. C., at its conclusion, literally holding up her hands and backing out of the room in surrender.
I can't recall them all, but a couple of the gems were:
Seth: "How long can a penis get? How long will my penis get?"
Jesse: "How are babies really made? You can tell me. I promise I won't talk about it in school. Mommy told me I'm not allowed to."
Seth: "I know, I know! You bump your privates together and it has something to do with this (points to his bare, eight-year-old chest)."
Jesse: "Does your butt ever hurt? Mine does. But why?"
Dr. C., wiping the tears from her eyes. "I love my job."
Sigh. Makes a mother proud.

Fashion Victim

Seth informed me last night that I am in need of a wardrobe makeover.
"Mom," he said as we strolled home from a playdate. "You don't really have any style."
When I queried him further, he explained boy-style to me: "It's jeans, sneakers and cool T-shirts. Easy-peasy."
But my look? "I don't mean to make you mad," my second-grader told me. "You just don't have any pizazz."
Truth is, Seth is the boy I ask fashion questions of from time to time (with four males in the house and me, I get kind of desperate for feedback).
And he's usually pretty on-target.
So, I asked the fatal question: What would give me more pizazz?
Seth's recommendations:
*Red, red lipstick
*Big black boots
*Lots of jewelry
*Exercise every morning
And, for the piece de resistance:
*"Can you do something to make your butt smaller?"
Perhaps I've been letting him watch What Not To Wear too often.