It’s the evening of the Irvine Cotillion for January, and my son is trying to figure something out . . .
“Do you have to go to cotillion in either 5th grade or 6th grade?” he asks.
He currently goes to the 5th grade cotillion, and I suppose he wants to know whether or not he’s in for another year of this.
“As far as I know,” I say, “you don’t have to go at all.”
My wife clarifies: “You go when your mom tells you to go.”
“Listen boy, I’m shaping you up beautifully,” she says, gesturing with her hands like a sculptor molding a slab of wet clay. “Don’t give me a problem.”
Later, his concern turns to who’s driving the carpool.
“You can’t let Dad drive the carpool,” he says. “He’ll make fun of us.” Here, he switches into his Dopey Dad voice. “‘So, you guys gonna dance with some pretty girls? I used to dance with some hot babes back in my day. WAA-HA-HA . . .'”
“Daddy is not going to make jokes,” my wife says.
“Not going to make jokes?!” he says. “How long have you lived here?”
How 5th grade boys break the ice with 5th grade girls:
“So . . . you have a lot of homework tonight?”