Today, I tried to give Genius enough confidence to make his own sandwich. You know, because he IS perfectly capable. He does it when I'm not home. So surely, it has to be a feeling of inadequacy that causes him to be unable to stack bread, turkey, cheese, bread when I am present. It's not rocket science. It should be child's play for a lad who scored 35 (out of a possible 36) on his ACT.
Genius informed me that the actual reason he cannot build a sandwich when I am home is because I am home. I'm the mom. So it is my duty to ply him with unending sandwiches until he has gorged to his stomach's content. He further informed me of the HORROR that dawned on the citizens of Missouri Boys State the first night on campus.
"Mom! We all sat around our dorm and looked at each other and said, 'Who's going to make us sandwiches?' It was scary. We didn't know what to do. And that became obvious to the staff the first day they gave us a sandwich bar for lunch."
"Did you all just sit at empty tables, not eating? Look for a stray woman to wander in? A guest speaker, perhaps, you could all run to and inform that she was now the official sandwich maker?"
"No. But once they saw the mess that sandwich bar was in when we were done, they didn't do it again."
"Huh. It must have been terrible. Did you guys even wear clothes that matched?"
"I didn't notice that. But PEOPLE WOULD NOT STOP PEEING ON THE SEAT! It got so bad that my roommate wrote out a sign that said, 'Stop Peeing On The Seat,' and taped it to the back of the toilet. And even THAT didn't help!"
"Well, I always did think you guys said, 'Look! No hands!' and then did a kind of helicopter dance while peeing."
I didn't even ask if anybody was there to give him a little spit bath if he had something on his face. No need to initiate a case of post traumatic stress disorder.