The Papaya

“Did I tell you about the papaya?”  my son asked on the way home Sunday night.

I had only seen him for a little bit on Friday, so I hadn’t heard anything about school on Friday yet.  “No, I don’t think so.”

He took a bite of his granola bar and chewed.

I waited.

And waited.

“Are you going to tell me about it?”

He nodded as he chewed another bite of the granola bar.

I waited.

“The Papaya,”  he said and then paused.

I waited.

“Ok.  So, Friday during Lanugage Arts -”

“Wait!” I interrupted.  “Did you just say the title of your story?”

He nods and then continues telling me the story of “The Papaya.”  Yes, my son, the writer, apparently titles even his verbal stories.  It wasn’t actually titled “Papaya,”  it was another “p” word that is more of what you would expect from middle school boys.   He went on to tell me a story about middle school boys, a “papaya” drawing, and an unsuspecting teacher on the last day before spring break.  The more he tells me about middle school, the happier I am to be here in elementary school,  far away from “papayas” and middle school boys…