My son is 16 years old. No he's not.
My son is the type of kid that loves to tell people everything. I took him to story time yesterday at the library. There were two other shy boys, so he was the only one on the carpet who felt sociable. With 6 other little girls. Let me tell you, I already know, he has a thing for pretty blonds. In the span of about 10 minutes, he told the lady reading the book that he was going to 'the other Salvation Army,' after story time. By which he means the resale shop. But at least he prefaces his interruptions with 'excuse me Miss.' Which of course makes the other Moms in the room crack up. Let's be honest, his cute little four year old voice saying 'excuse me Miss,' is pretty damn cute.
He also told all the little girls on the rug that he's 16. A week or two ago he was 14, so at least this isn't some absurd version of Benjamin Button. He came to this conclusion because the scale told him so. Except, he's like 38 pounds. Not 16. Or 14. And try as I might, he simply will not believe that the scale doesn't tell him how old he is.
I know I should be grateful that he only lies about his age and doesn't pull out his slightly more disturbing party tricks when in public. Like taking of all his clothes, pointing his wiener at things and yelling pew pew, like it's a gun. Or when he holds it and stares at it like he's got the force and then looks at me straight in the eyes and whispers that 'it's getting bigger.'
God help me. I'm going to read this post at his wedding some day.