I am on a plane at Charles-de-Gaulle airport in Paris, returning from just over a week in perhaps my favorite cities on the planet. As I usually do while on the road, I revisit a Sundays are for Sebastian. This one comes from two years ago, when Seba was eleven.
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.
I was cleaning up dishes in the sink when Sebastian came bouncing down the stairs. I had told him countless times before that he needed to rinse out his dishes and put them in the dishwasher.
A cereal bowl with practically baked-on Rice Krispies was causing me an extra five minutes of elbow grease.
Me: “Seba how many times have I told you to rinse your dishes?!”
Seba: “I dunno. A lot?”
Me: “I just spent five minutes cleaning your bowl from this morning. If it happens again, no cereal for a month!”
He sat down at the table to do some homework as I went off to my office for a little work myself. Moments later, my wife came downstairs.
My wife (as she entered the kitchen): “Thanks for doing the dishes.”
My wife chuckled. My wife again (a little louder to carry to the office): “Thanks for doing the dishes!”
Seba: “You’re welcome!”
My wife: “ Huh? You did the dishes?”
Me (from the office): “No, I did.”
My wife turned to Seba, somewhat incredulous at his audacity.
Seba: “Well, if no one else was going to take credit….”