2:30 pm

The other day I was standing outside an elementary school talking to my co-worker Yolanda while we waited for the kids to be released from school. Our conversations usually run something like this:
“Hey, Yolanda. (sigh).”
“What’s wrong, Andrew?”
“Oh nothing. (sigh).”
“Andrew."
“Okay, you’re right I am unhappy, and it’s because of this long, involved story that isn’t really all that awful, but I am overly sensitive and frequently take things more personally than I should.”
“You’re silly Andrew. Here is some helpful common sense advice that is applicable to your story.”
“Thanks, Yolanda. Oh look, here comes a kid.”

The kids trickle out one and two at a time, and the first one this particular day was a smart, red-headed second grader who’s good at getting away with doing things he shouldn’t. His friends will all get sent to timeout, or a phone call to mom, or whatever, and this boy will slip through everytime, his wide blue eyes full of innocence and this kind of "Aw shucks, I wish I could have stopped Trevor from being SO bad, but I'm only seven," look that you believe until about five minutes after it's too late to go back and punish him. Yolanda and I helped the little escape artist onto the van and continued our conversation in a more child-friendly vein, making attempts to include him.
“How was school today?” Yolanda asked him.
“Oh fine,” he said, distracted by his book.
“What’s that you’re reading?” I asked.
The boy looked up from his book, looked me dead in the eye, and said quite seriously:
“In the future, I’m your father.”
Yolanda turned to hide her laughter, but I stared back at him agape.
“Do you mean reincarnation?”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“When you die and come back as someone else. Or something else sometimes.”
“I dunno. What’s for snack?”
“French toast sticks.”
“Yay, I like those.”
“You’re a freak,” I told him, and headed back to my own van to help other, less crazy children into their booster seats.