Tonight Grama was kind enough to let Ten, pardon me, Eleven, invite a couple of his new friends over to her house to celebrate his birthday with him.
Digression #1: If you ever invite S over to your house, do NOT let him eat hot dogs first. Dear Lord in Heaven, that child can fart. At least Mom won't need to buy any roach killer for the next few weeks. S took care of the fumigating for her.
They sprayed each other with insect repellent and explored the woods. J found a whip and tried to swing from a branch á la Indiana Jones. They picked berries and grass and added creek water to make "secret magic potions" in little jars. They swung in the hammock as if it were some kind of challenge course on Wipeout and tried to get each other to fall off the side. They talked too loud, ran through the house like bulls in a china shop, and generally wreaked havoc wherever they went.
You know...little boy stuff.
So here we were with a stack of pizzas and a house full of sweaty little testosterone-laden fart machines.
Digression #2: Pizza has the same effect on S as hot dogs.
Digression #3: Pizza also has that effect on my dog when little boys and their Grama feed her pizza. Trust me on this.
It was time for Eleven to open his presents and Mom suggested that perhaps she should open them and keep them for herself.
Eleven said, "No way, Grama. You're too old."
We all laughed and reacted with varying degrees of "Oh no he di'int!"
Then Eleven dug the grave a little deeper and said, "Well, I guess you could have a present, but only if it was something like a cushion."
At this point we're not sure if he'll make to to be Twelve.