When my son was 13 and in 8th grade, he was in Honors Algebra, pre-AP English, and 9th grade Spanish. When he plays quarterback, he can remember all of his plays, hold his cool, drop back and deliver a perfect pass with eleven guys coming at him. He can shoot a three-pointer and never flinch. This might seem like obnoxious motherly bragging, but I say all this to set the stage for what seem to be absolutely dumbfounding comments and behavior that can only be explained by the ramped up hormones muddling his brain in such a variety of ways. The examples are so many, but my favorite is the Sunday morning toast story.

In an attempt to impress my son’s friend who had stayed overnight with us, I fixed a big breakfast on a Sunday morning complete with eggs, bacon, and toast. They both enjoyed it immensely. As my son finished his toast, he looked at me bewildered.

Son: How did you make this?

Mom: With the toaster.

Son: What? We have a toaster?

Yes, dear reader, we have a toaster. He used to use the toaster. Now the toaster is some sort of magical bread machine that only those with the special maternal third eye have access to.

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