I had a moment this week that left me wondering if my 15-year old son was really mine. Seriously. If I hadn't been the star witness and Principal Groaner at his birth, somebody would be swabbing his mouth... as we speak... for a DNA test ala Maury Povich.
I took him to apply for a passport since he's leaving to get his first taste of the International life. As he watched me go through identifying myself for his application, he asked why he had to show-up for the event. I went into some monologue about potential fraud blah-blah-blah and figured the issue was closed.
Later that day, I happened to see the written clause requiring minors to be present during the application.
"Hmmm. Maybe I should show him this little nugget to solidify my original answer."
Yeah. Right. It sounded good. And then this happened:
"Minors?!?! I had to be present because I'm BLACK?"
"Honey, you had to show up because you're a kid."
"Oh. Because back in the day, blacks were called minors."
"Ummmm. No. My-nor-eh-TEES."
"Does that mean I'm a minority minor?"
Will the missing real mother of this child please stand up?