Sebastian is my eleven-year-old and he says some of the funniest things–we have no idea where he gets his material since his mother and I are rather boring, serious people. 

A few months ago, my wife’s family was in town and that meant family pictures. When my wife’s family wants to take family pictures, they don’t fool around–they hired a photographer and we headed downtown for an afternoon of portraits.

This all took place in December, and we were fortunate to have very nice weather. Too nice. As can happen in Houston, it was in the 80s, and before too long, it became rather uncomfortable. Regardless, we soldiered on.

Sebastian, growing increasingly hot and sweaty, approached his mother.

Sebastian: “How much longer?”

His mother: “I don’t know, just relax, we will be done soon.”

Sebastian: “How soon? It’s so hot!”

His mother: “I told you, I don’t know.”

Sebastian: “But I don’t want to take any more pictures, can’t we just go home?”

His mother: “Sebastian, I told you we would be done soon, you just need to be patient. This isn’t about you.”

Sebastian: “If it’s not about me, then why do I have to be in the pictures?”