Apparently, so I've been told, it's not in good form to abbreviate Babysitting Job to BJ.
So said my twelve year old son when I asked him how his first BJ went.
He just looked at me, made a kind of huffing sound, then looked away, saying "Mo-om" in a kind of pleading tone.
"Well, how did it go. Were you very nervous?"
"What are you TALKING about?"
"Your babysitting job- or as I like to call it- and I think it stands to reason, quite logically, BJ."
"You can't call it that!" he said.
"Why ever not?" I asked him.
But he just rolled his eyes and slunk away, with an annoyed kind of sigh.
And when I further insisted that he should set up a Facebook page advertising his BJ skills, he acted, if anything- disgusted.
"Write: 12 year old boy will perform BJ's. Very experienced. References available. Have certificate and training in CPR. Five dollars an hour. Available on evenings and weekends. Cash only. And then we can post a picture of your cute, little, angelic face."
He refused to even respond.
"I think you'll get a lot of response with that," I told him.
"Oh, no doubt I probably would," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "A forty seven year old man named Kirk who wears pastel cardigan sweaters."
I told my mom, indignant. "Gage doesn't want to do BJs to make extra money."
"What?" she asked, incredulous. "That's what you did, starting when you were eleven or twelve. You did almost the whole neighborhood. Every one had your number. On Saturday night, your phone was practically ringing off the hook, people were demanding your BJ services they were. People had to book you weeks in advance. We had to set up your own separate line, if I recall. The best BJ's in town, they said. You had a knack for it. Your father and I were so proud. Oh- and the money you rolled in!"
"Yes. The kids these days. They think we just came in off the turnip truck. Like we don't know nothing about what the kids are doing with the BJs and the marijuana cigarettes, or doobies, as the young kids call it."
"Oh I know," my mom said. "They don't know that we've all done BJ's. Even grandpa and I, back when we were young and starting out, did the occasional BJ."
Oh, the poor kid. We're traumatizing him.
I wonder why he doesn't want to hang around with us??