A few nights ago, my son and I were sitting on the couch watching TV. It was a rerun of "The Simpsons" that we had both seen more than once. That didn't keep us from enjoying it, each in our own ways, and with plenty of overlapping bits that we laughed at together. During a commercial, our thoughts turned to snacks. "It's a shame we didn't get any Girl Scout cookies when we saw them out in front of the grocery store," I said.
"Mmmm," replied my son, channeling his best Homer Simpson.
"What I wouldn't give for a box of Thin Mints right now."
"Mmmm, Thin Mints."
"We should have bought a case right then."
"Yeah," he said, still a little glazed, "but Samoas are good too."
This is when the conversation stopped. I didn't know how to continue. Sitting next to me, my own flesh and blood, was a child I no longer understood. Samoas? The uncomfortable silence was broken when he assured me, "I still like Thin Mints."
Some measure of trust restored, and the commercial over, we returned to the relative sanctuary of Springfield. We watched in relative silence, broken by the occasional snicker or guffaw. My son will be twelve in a couple of months. I know that this kind of interaction will be coming our way more often over the next few years.
Today, my son went out bowling with his friends. I stuck around the neighborhood, and stopped by the grocery store where the Girl Scouts were out once again. They were out of Thin Mints, so I bought a box of Samoas.