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Let's talk about homework, or as my son calls it, the ancient art of procrastination. Homework is a battleground, and every assignment is a potential war zone. I walk into his room, and it's like a war council is in session. Books scattered, papers crumpled, and he's there, staring at his notebook like it's a riddle he's not ready to solve. I asked him once, "Why do you wait until the last minute?" He looks at me dead serious and says, "Dad, I work better under pressure." Under pressure? This is a fifth-grade math assignment, not a NASA launch! I'm starting to think he believes in the power of deadline-induced miracles.
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Kids these days and their relationship with technology—it's like a love affair with constant drama. My son talks to his gadgets more than he talks to me. I'll ask him a question, and he's in deep conversation with Siri, like, "Siri, what's the capital of France?" I'm standing there thinking, "Dude, I know this one; it's Paris!" And don't get me started on the games. It's like he's training for a digital Olympics. I hear the intensity in his voice as he battles virtual dragons or builds pixelated empires. I tried joining him once, handed him a controller, and promptly got my virtual behind handed to me. I felt like a grandpa trying to figure out a touchscreen for the first time.
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You ever notice how boys and fridges have this unspoken alliance? It's like they share this secret pact to challenge the laws of physics. My son, he opens the fridge and stares into it like he's discovering a new dimension. It's not about hunger; it's about exploration. I'm pretty sure he thinks Narnia is in there. I tried explaining to him that it's not a portal to a magical land, but he just looked at me like, "You don't know what you're talking about, Dad." And the way he organizes things in there! It's like he's playing Tetris with the groceries. I open the door, and it's a game of "dodge the falling leftovers." I'm convinced he's training for the fridge Olympics. Gold medal in reaching the chocolate milk without knocking over the eggs.
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Mornings in our house are like a scene from a sitcom. The boy and mornings—two things that should never mix. Getting him out of bed is like negotiating a peace treaty. I walk in, gently shake him, and suddenly I'm dealing with a human-shaped snooze button. He mutters something that sounds like, "Five more minutes," but it's more wishful thinking than a request. And the breakfast choices! It's a culinary adventure every morning. Cereal with orange juice, peanut butter on waffles—he's like a mad scientist experimenting with taste combinations. I once found him putting ketchup on his pancakes. I asked, "What are you doing?" He looks at me with all seriousness and says, "It's a breakfast revolution, Dad.
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