Best Graduation Procession Ever!

 –Best graduation procession ever! (And anyone who knows me knows that I almost never use exclamation marks.)

Daniel graduated from the University of Virginia yesterday. (Well, technically, he graduated in December. He participated in graduation ceremonies yesterday.)

A few thousand graduates walked "the Lawn," the large 200-yard terraced court. Part of Jefferson's Academical Village, a UNESCO World Heritage site, the students descended the steps of the Rotunda, walked past the statue of Homer to their seats at the front of Old Cabell Hall.

Obviously, this procession steeped in historical tradition is intended as a serious exercise. But the 35-minute procession reminded me of a Macy’s Day Thanksgiving Day parade, just with smaller, personalized individual helium balloons–Elmo, Bluey, mermaids, unicorns, even the poop emoji. The balloons not only expressed each student's individuality, but helped parents identify where he or she was in the grand procession. Daniel texted us to let us know he was next to someone with a race car. Luckily, Daniel is 6'4" tall and we were able to spot him soon after the Data Science banner passed by our section.

At the end of the procession balloon wranglers collected most of the balloons so that they were not a distraction during the ceremony. We were told they were donated to the local children’s hospitals. It was all quite spectacular and a fitting beginning to a well executed commencement ceremony.

As I watched this best procession ever, I gratefully, but wistfully noted that this graduation ceremony was the end of an era. Most likely the final graduation in the Scott Stornetta nuclear family. (Although one can never say never.) So as I contemplated the sweep of our family graduations, I came up with a list of "bests" presented chronologically.

--Best graduation present (BYU, My B.A., English, 1979) 

I don’t remember much about my own graduation. I sat next to Stephanie Parker Johnson during the convocation. I think I walked across the stage for my diploma in the Smith Field House. My parents split up during the college commencements as both my brother Steve and I walked at the same time. We ate lunch afterwards with Daniel Shanthakumar, a family friend who graduated with his master’s degree, at Heaps Pizza. 

I do, however, remember shopping for my graduation present with my mother. We hit the O.C. Tanner in downtown Salt Lake City where my mother bought me a gold Seiko watch with the help of Clarice Williams. I loved that watch. Grieved when it stopped working. It didn't make much sense to repair it given that I now live by the dictates of my Apple Watch. (It was interesting to take note on the train in Geneva, Switzerland that many people still do wear expensive watches.)

–Best mother-in-law memory (BYU, Scott, B.S., Physics, 1983)  

When the hostess at Magelby’s told us we would need to wait forty-five minutes for a table for our graduation celebratory lunch, my parents, Scott and I hit the nearby computer store as we waited. Scott had a “come-to-Jesus” moment as he listened to my mother knowledgably converse with the computer salesman about an Apple IIe computer–the state of the art back then. 

As he listened to his mother-in-law banter about buzz words, he realized she knew more about personal computers than he did. (It was fellow students who had helped me through my computational linguistics class.) He decided he would spend the summer before graduate school learning to how to program a computer. The beginning of a long and productive career in technology.

–Best commencement speakers (Stanford, Scott’s Ph.D., Physics, 1989) 

Garry Trudeau. I don’t recall much of his speech anymore, but I remember how engaging it was, particularly as I was walking the concourse of the Stanford stadium with six-month-old Nathan. I was so happy. So happy to be enjoying the California sunshine. So happy to have my little family of Scott, Chrissy, and Nathan. So happy Scott was nearly finished with his Ph.D. (He walked at the graduation in June, but defended his dissertation in August, the morning after a 5.4 earthquake in the middle of the night. A little nerve-wracking, but at least we missed the big one (6.9) that hit two months later during the World Series.) And so, so happy Scott had a job.

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf (BYU, Nathan, B.S., Economics; B.A., Spanish, 2014) 

Replete with humor and requisite airplane references. In particular, I loved his opening: “I love this university. During my years as an airline captain, I would sometimes cross this beautiful part of Utah on flights from Frankfurt, Germany, to Los Angeles. When I did, I would often announce to the passengers that if they looked out their windows they would have the privilege of seeing the world-famous Brigham Young University below. Some captains might reserve such an announcement for sites like the Grand Canyon or the Eiffel Tower, but to me Brigham Young University has always had a special place in my heart.”

–Best student speaker (Morristown HS, Nathan, 2007) 

Obviously, I am Nathan’s mother. But I still occasionally run into people who mention his speech. Of course, one of the best parts was that he used one of our family’s favorite quotations attributed to Mark Twain: "When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years."

Scott's favorite memory, a quotation that has stuck with him through the years: "Integrity. If you have it nothing, else matters. If you don't, nothing else matters."

–Best musical number (BYU, Chrissy, B.S., Math Education; B.A. Music,  2009) 

Again, a mother’s view, but Chrissy’s flute duet in the Wilkinson Center during the commencement for the Mathematics graduates surely was the best musical number ever.

--Best advice to graduating high school seniors (Columbia High School, 2011)

Scott taught Math at Columbia High School in Maplewood, NJ for eleven years. First Class, his advice to his seniors in 2011 is a classic.

–Best pre-graduation festivities (Penn State, Chrissy, M.S., Applied Statistics, May, 2019) 

We took Chrissy's children, Adella, Marshall, and baby Max, to Hershey Park and Gettysburg before their mother's graduation. I wanted to make sure the graduation would be memorable and that maybe, just maybe, it would inspire them in their educational pursuits.

The festivities were almost marred by a miscalculation as we drove from Gettysburg to the arena in State College. New Tesla users, we miscalculated how long our charge would last and it was a nail biter getting there. I think the two kids were young enough to be clueless. 

Never again have we cut it that close. And now our grandchildren watch our screen so closely, they would never let us get anywhere near to running out of charge.

--Best near miss of graduation ceremony (General convocation, University of Chicago, Nathan, M.B.A., June 2019)

I was frantic. Despite all my best planning, somehow, Scott was nowhere to be found just as the ceremonies were about to begin on the Quad. He was forgiven as he found us just as the procession began. Seems he had stopped to buy a homeless person breakfast.

–Best walk across the stage to receive a diploma (The University of Chicago Booth School of Business, Nathan, M.B.A., June 2019) 

Nathan’s walk across the stage to get his MBA diploma with three-year Jim in his arms was truly endearing.

–Best non-event graduation (Georgia Tech, Nathan, M.S., Computer Science, 2020). 

A diploma arrived in the mail in August 2020. In the midst of Covid. The university held a socially distanced graduation ceremony in December, but by then, a ceremony was kind of irrelevant. Nathan never stepped on campus for classes. Why start for graduation?

–Most intimate setting for conferring diplomas (UVA, Daniel, M.S., Data Science, 2026) 

Old Cabell Hall was the perfect setting for an intimate graduation ceremony. 

–Commencement words best tailored to my child (UVA, Daniel, M.S., Data Science, 2026)

In conferring their degrees upon the master’s degree candidates in Data Science, University of Virginia President Scott C. Beardsley encouraged the students to pursue their careers caring for ethics and the privacy of others. Spot on for Daniel, who has tried to scrub his online presence, insists upon communicating with me via cryptographically secure Signal channels, and made me create a 32 character password for my password management program. Note, in respect for Daniel, my posted graduation photo of Daniel is not of his back to show off his master’s robes, but to avoid showing his face.

Proudest parents, bar none: (Forever and for always)

Scott and Marcia Stornetta

The fun car

"Granma, your car is no longer 'the fun car,'" nine-year-old Marshall matter-of-factly announces as I am driving him and his two brothers to the school bus stop.

I am not surprised by his declaration. I am surprised, however, by how long it has taken my grandson with no guile to fess up to me. 

There was a time when my car was indeed “the fun car.” Those halcyon days of early car ownership, two and a half years ago, when my grandchildren came to my house to play not with me nor the toys in my basement, but with my new Tesla Model Y, my new toy in the driveway. They swayed and bopped to the light show–music playing from the external speakers while lights, windows, mirrors, and even the trunk danced to the rhythm. They raced beach buggies, fought warriors, and moved pawns and rooks through an entire arcade of games on the touchscreen. And they squealed at the six different fart sounds available in the Emissions Testing Mode. My house has never been so spotless following my grandchildren’s visits than during those weeks.

It was Adella who christened my car “the fun car.” (Lower case, perhaps suggesting it was not a Proper Noun sort of name.) I noticed the name when it popped up on my touchscreen after one of the cherubs’ visits. Undoubtedly when she was customizing those fart sounds, she found the prompt to name the car and did so without much thought, unlike Pop Pop, who had deliberated for weeks about an appropriate name for his Model 3 before finally settling on “Charley” in homage to John Steinbeck’s standard poodle in the travelogue Travels with Charley. “The fun car” was not a moniker I would have picked. Yet its whimsy delighted me. 

“I know. I know,” I say. “My car is no longer ‘the fun car.’” I finally admitted it out loud. Pop Pop’s car was now the car of favor. 

The popularity of my car tanked the moment Pop Pop traded his Model 3 in for a Model S. It was not Scott’s intention to usurp my car’s role. But Tesla’s technology has become Pop Pop’s Achilles’ heel. He, who until Tesla came into his life, had never bought a new car and had driven all his previous cars until their last gasps, had felt compelled to upgrade his Tesla Model 3 in order to move from hardware 3 to hardware 4. Of course, all this was lost on the boys. All they care about is that there is a screen in the middle of the back seat that works while the car is driving. Pop Pop’s car is now the fun car, even if Pop Pop has transferred the name Charley, along with the Full Self-Driving software, to the new Model S.

No sense dwelling on my demise in status, I think. I change the subject. “You know why Pop Pop named his car “Charley,” don’t you?” I ask.

Of course, they don’t. But the rhetorical question primes my story.

“A long time ago, there was a man named Steinbeck who wrote a book about driving across the country with his dog named Charley. Pop Pop named his car Charley because he sees his car as a travel companion just like that dog. Steinbeck took Charley to all sorts of places all across the United States. . . .”

“But . . .,” Marshall interrupts aghast.  “Is Pop Pop going to drive all across the country? That will take two years.” 

And so my literary lesson is cut short. And before I can describe one of my favortie scenes when to Steinbeck’s dismay Charley ignores a giant redwood tree, not duly appreciating the opportunity afforded the beloved poodle. A story these two boys, who love nothing more than spraying a tree in the wild, would have loved.

“Oh, no,” I laugh. “Pop Pop likes driving Charley, a lot. But he doesn’t like him that much.”

And then I ask, “So, Marshall,” I say, “What would you name my car?”

He thinks a minute. Then he says, “The Fast Mobile.”

Apt, I think. My car can, in fact, go from 0-60 in 4.8 seconds. An excellent feature for the several merges required to get from my house to their bus stop. But it is not the acceleration rate of my car, but rather how I drive my car that Marshall is considering. 

He knows Granma has a lead foot, even if my acceleration rate is set to “Chill” mode. As the older child, he usually wins the tussle for the vaunted middle seat. This small center seat has no window and is made even smaller by the encroachment of Alex’s car seat, but oh what a view. Perched in the middle, he can monitor our drive. He vigilantly watches the large touchscreen in the center of my dashboard. He tracks our position in the lane, the speed limit, and my current speed on the left half of the screen. On the right half, he sees the map of our route, follows our position on it, and tracks the estimated time of our arrival. He very much knows how fast Granma drives our fifteen-minute route: he is monitoring whether or not we will have time to stop at Dunkin Donuts. It is curious that his pleas for me to obey the speed limit in September now have given way to “Can’t you go any faster, Granma?”

“Or maybe,” Marshall continues, ”we could call it The Honey Mobile.”

"The Honey Mobile?” I ask.

“Yes,” he explains. ”Because honey is so slippery.” 

Hmm, I think. Has this child ever spooned or dripped honey on a biscuit or peanut butter sandwich? I think of honey as sticky, not slippery. Is there some cartoon or video game that has led him to that conclusion? Some challenge of Mr. Beast? I am about to attempt another lesson, but decide to let that one slide.

Then six-year-old Max, he, who has lost car seat scuffle simply because he is younger, joins in, hoping to at least win the naming contest. 

“THE CUBE MOBILE," Max shouts. (Max lives life at 80 decibels.) "I WOULD LIKE TO NAME YOUR CAR THE CUBE MOBILE.” A name that reflects his current interest in math rather than a descriptor for Model Y, more curvy than angular.

“Yeah, right,”  Marshall says, calling him out with just a hint of sacrasm appropriate for a nine-year-old not yet jaded by adolescence. “Max, this car is not a cube.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Max quickly accedes. 

“RECTANGLE MOBILE,” he then shouts, his enthusiasm evident.

But before Max can unleash a panoply of all the geometric shapes he knows, and before Marshall can correct Max with reasoning and logic, we are at the bus stop. Thankfully. And before Marshall can shoot down Max's second choice as well, Marshall and Max are gathering backpacks and jackets and scurrying off to their friends at the bus stop.

I sigh. As I often do when my little cherubic hellions have been discharged from my care to make their way into the world at large. And then I smile. For my car to be considered as some sort of mobile is to place it in the same category as the batmobile, which is to suggest that I, too, am a superhero. Perhaps false illusions of grandeur. But not bad for a granny.

The bus comes. They scamper on. The bus goes. Now it is just me and three-year-old Alex in the car. We settle in for the twenty-minute wait for his bus. 

And as Alex presses all the buttons on my touchscreen (and without my knowledge actually activates the fart mode on the external speaker on my car), I consider the issue of my car’s outdated, obsolete name that Marshall has so kindly brought to my attention. Alex calls my car “Gamma’s car.” He does not say much. So his words count. But I kinda like "the fun car." I did not choose the name. It was thrust upon me. (Thanks, Adella.) And I freely admit my car no longer lives up to its name. Pop Pop’s car is, indeed, “the fun car.”

By the time Alex's bus arrives, I realize all my internal debate is moot: I am far too comfortable in my learned helplessnes is most things technological. Changing the name would not only require me to make the effort to do so, but also require me to learn how to do so.

Then, I spy the glovebox. The glovebox that requires a page in the Tesla Owner’s Manual to learn how to operate it. Every car has a glovebox. How many decades has it been since anyone actually stored their driving gloves in a glovebox? It stores car registrations, insurance cards, maybe even a pen or two, but no gloves. Nonetheless, it is still called a glovebox.

“The fun car” it is and shall ever be.

Ten

“Four is my favorite number,” Max declares. 

I have suspected as much. He has just celebrated his fourth birthday two weeks before.

“Is it because you are four years old?” I ask.

With gravitas, he slowly nods his head. It is clear that a number so tied to his identity is a serious matter.

I smile. Four is such a delightful age. Especially on Max. He asks questions, much deeper than he realizes: “Granma, why did you need a new kitchen?” (Truth is, I don’t. ) He is anxious to help or comply: as soon as Pop Pop mentions how important running outside is, Max races up the basement stairs, runs to the kitchen, slides open the door, and begins running around the house as fast as his four-year-old legs can. And he has an unshakable confidence about the way the world should be: “Granma I fixed your snack basket,” he says. With the help of a chair, he has plucked the goodies from my upper cupboard shelves that I have hidden because of their mess factor and added them to my carefully curated snack basket. (A woven  basket his great-grandmother used to collect eggs on the her expansive Virginia farm when she was not much older than he.)

What a gift for Pop Pop and me to have Max all to ourselves every morning for an hour and a half before we take turns driving him to preschool. It is the official year of Max, the middle child. We do not need to compete with video games, YouTube, or Netflix for his attention, as we might with his older siblings. And he does not need to compete with his siblings for our attention. 

This age discussion has Max thinking. He asks, “Granma, how old are you?”

Hmm, I think. When I was young my father made a point of teaching me (and often reteaching me) that it was impolite to ask a lady her age or her weight. But that lesson is better taught another day: I do not want to stymie the glorious, unabashed life of this four-year-old. 

Instead I ask, “How old do you think I am?” Always such an intriguing question with children.

“Ten,” he says, without hesitation. Then he adds, “Ten is big and and when you’re ten, you’re an adult.”

No need to dissuade him. Max is intrigued by numbers and ten is his current favorite. Ten minutes is how much longer he wants to play. Ten hours is how long he had to wait his turn. Ten days until Halloween or Christmas, whichever holiday he is discussing. To Max ten is not a cardinal number, it is a nebulous concept, as broad as tomorrow is to a toddler or infinity is to his math whiz sister Adella. Is ten his favorite because it is close to the outer limit of numbers he can comfortably count? Or is it because Adella will soon be ten? Regardless it pleases me that my grandson thinks first that I am young and second that I am an adult.

Soon Max disappears downstairs to the bowels of the basement to watch Pop Pop on the treadmill. Max enjoys watching Pop Pop on the treadmill. Especially on days like today when Pop Pop finishes his run and lets Max have a turn. Which today leads to their discussion of numbers, which Pop Pop shares with me when he emerges from the basement, sweaty and smiling, followed by Max.

Pop Pop reminded Max of the rules before his turn. Max must always wear his sneakers on the treadmill. He can only use the treadmil with an adult present. And he can never go past two, a safe, steady pace. 

“But Pop Pop,” the ever observant Max protested. “It says six when you were running. I want to go to six.”

“Oh, no,” Pop Pop said in what I only imagine is his mock incredulous voice with a slight lilt of suppressed laughter that he uses whenever a grandchild seeks to push a boundary. 

“You are not yet old enough to go at six. When you are older, maybe in a year, after you have another birthday, you can run at three. Then after more time, maybe another year or many more, you can run at four.”

“And when I am bigger I can go to six like you Pop Pop,” Max joined in. He gets the point.

Then he added, “When I am even older, I can run at ten like Granma. Granma goes at ten.”

Pop Pop laughed. “Well,” he said. “I don’t know about that. I am pretty sure that Granma can’t run at ten. Maybe she can swim ten laps for every six that I can swim, but I know I can run faster than she does.”

Max stood resolute, unconvinced. It would be like saying that his beloved Spiderman cannot shoot webs and swing his way among skyscrapers to rescue the downtrodden. To Max I am a superhero. It doesn’t matter that I have been hobbling around for six weeks due to a bit of nerve damage following surgery and that I am only now approaching my pre-surgery walking speed, more like a three. He thinks I can run at ten miles per hour.

After hearing of their conversation, I am tempted to revel in Max's adulation. But there is no time. It is time to go to preschool. 

“Max, I’ve got to go put my pants on so I can take you to school,” I say. Gone are the pajama bottom dropoff days of Adella and Marshall, true dropoff days, when I waited in a queue of cars for a teacher, unaware of my attire, to open my car door, and let my little cherub out. Now I must exit my car to drop off Max at his preschool playground.

Max follows me into my bedroom. Modesty, be damned. As I swap my Christmas polar bear flannel pajama pants for a pair of joggers, he asks, “What size do you wear Granma?”

Perhaps I should have given him a version of my father’s lecture on a woman’s age and weight after all, I think. “Well,’ I say, “I wear a large.”

He persists, “But what size are your pants?”

“A large size,” I say again. No need to fill him in on all the details

Then he says, “I know, Granma. Your size is a ten.”

Oh, if only, I think. That ship sailed some time ago. And then he regales me with his logic. He is four and wears a size four. Marshall is seven and he wears a size seven. Because I am ten, then surely I must wear a size ten. Gotta love this child, I think, who has an undersized view of his oversized grandmother.

Soon we are in the car, counting off the few miles to preschool. We pass one stoplight, two stop signs, three fields with well over ten large rolled hay bales, and four grazing horses. Then Max announces, “There are headstones at my school.”

“Yes,” I agree. “That’s because your school is in an old church, and they often bury people at churches.”

“No,” he replies. “It is my school.”

“Well,” I say, “Your preschool is in the basement, and it is a church upstairs.”

“No,” he insists, “it is a school.”

“Well, maybe,” I counter, “On Sunday it is a church.” 

He finally concedes. Then he adds, “And the headstones are for the hundred Zombies that Marshall has killed.”

So it seems I am not the only superhero in the family. I did not realize Marshall was also a Zombie slayer. I am curious what tales Marshall has told about his old preschool.

“Or maybe it was just ten Zombies,” he adds.

I chuckle, then ask, “And do you suppose that maybe, just maybe, those Zombies are pre-e-e-ten-n-d-d-d?” I say, hoping to make the answer obvious by drawing the word out. “Or real?” I barely whisper. 

“Real,” he avows, shouting. 

This time I concede by silence. I suppose it is inevitable. What else is he to believe when he has an Uncle Daniel and a Pop Pop who spent a road trip calculating the Zombie-free Safe Zone–the distance required to outrun the Zombies in order to be safe should their escape car breakdown on a freeway during a Zombie Apocalypse. (6.2 miles--Don’t ask me how they arrived at that figure. Not sure. And it should be noted that calculations fail to factor in the possibility of any Zombies lumbering up the freeway off-ramp against the flow of traffic.)

Regardless, there are no Zombies active today, and we get to the preschool safely. I park in the spot furthest from the Zombie graveyard. We exit the car, Max, fresh-faced and bright-eyed with his shiny, new backpack and clean back-to-school sneakers, and me with my slightly combed bed-head hair, puffy eyes hidden behind sunglasses, wearing loose, large-sized joggers, ragged t-shirt, baggy sweatshirt and the suede slippers I forgot to change out of before I got into the car. 

Together, Max and I walk the path to the playground gate for dropoff. 

I relish the moment. Basking in the warm autumn air, listening to the sweet chatter of preschoolers, and holding the trusting clasp of Max’s hand. 

I smile contentedly. For I know that for the first, and perhaps the only time in my life, I am a perfect ten.

Where Babies Come From

 

“I know where babies come from,” Max announces to Pop Pop on their way to preschool.

“Oh?” Pop Pop asks, game to listen. Max is in that delightful childhood stage when he is always ready to ponder a “why” and ever willing to create his own explanation if his trusted adults do not provide a satisfying answer.

“You see, Grandpa,” Max says, “There are some people who have babies and don’t want them.”

Not exactly what Pop Pop is expecting, and he wonders where Max is going with this explanation.

“And when no one wants those babies,” Max continues, “they give them to other people.”

So somewhere Max must have heard someone explain adoption. Which begs the question, which Max is ignoring. Where do those adopted babies come from?

Then comes the bombshell.

“Uncle Daniel did not want Alex, so he gave Alex to Mom and Dad.”

And there we have it—Max's first version of the “You’re adopted” taunt for his baby brother Alex. 

Is Max subconsciously feeling usurped as the baby in the family by Alex? (It has been four and a half years.) Or inspired by a political era rampant with conspiracy theories, did Max conveniently forget his mother’s last pregnancy and her visit to the hospital when Alex was born? Or was he simply taken in by a classmate's story of his own adoption? Hard to tell. But I, indeed, can testify that Alex is not adopted, for my mettle as a granny nanny was sorely tested by wrestling Chrissy's three cherubs in my home for thirty-six hours while she and Christian awaited Alex's arrival at the hospital. (Pop Pop oh-so-conveniently happened to be on a business (?) trip to Israel.)

Pop Pop does not try to dissuade Max of his birth theory. As of yet, Alex is too young to absorb the false adoption tale, which Max truly seems to believe. Pop Pop figures Max’s parents might provide a more accurate, age-appropriate discussion. 

I, on the other hand, feel most deeply for the dear, sweet, besmirched Uncle Daniel whose status as the favored, single, fun, unimpeachable uncle is now seriously in question. Alas, we must wait until Easter to see how Uncle Daniel will magically restore his character.

What the Hell

“‘Ohmygosh’ is a good word,” Max announces from the back seat of my car. 

Max is four. His world is black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. Nonetheless I am surprised. His moral pronouncement has no context. Completely out of the blue. He has my attention. 

It is time for a teaching moment.

“Yes, you’re right,” I say. “It is a good word.” I am tempted to explain that the phrase is not one word, but actually three words. But I resist. 

Instead I say, “Max, you you do need to be careful. There is another phrase that sounds almost the same that you should not say.” 

Then I give him a simple discourse of the third commandment, emphasizing a loving Father in Heaven who does not wish His name to be taken in vain.

Max takes it all in. He is serious and silent. 

On the other hand, sixteen-month-old Alex wants to add to the conversation. 

“Vroom, vroom, vroom,” he says from his car seat. 

Alex must have finished his donut, I think. Which gives me about five more minutes before he starts screaming to get out of his carseat.

I quickly take advantage of my five minutes’ peace—I start running through my preflight mental checklist. Note to self: do not plan a flight three hours after Monday morning carpool duty.

Then Max speaks up again. Our conversation is not yet over.

“‘Whatthehell’ is not a good word, Granma. We can’t say, ‘Whatthehell.’”

“Max,” I say, ready for another lesson.

But he is not to be interrupted. 

“‘Whatthehell’ is not a good word to say, right? I don’t want to say, ‘Whatthehell.’ Granma, you don’t say ‘Whatthehell,’ do you?” 

Were he an older child, the cadence of the phrase or the sheer naughtiness of it would have led to his repetition. But Max is only four. He is merely clarifying, and his timing is impeccable, for I cannot laugh. My attention is focused on merging onto 287 at 65 miles an hour. 

After a minute, when I am well established in the flow of traffic, I reply, “No, Max. I do not say those words.” And then add, “I am so proud of you, Max. You know what words you should not say.” 

 

I am curious. Where has he heard that phrase? Not from me. I abandoned cussing twenty-five years ago when my son Daniel was around the same age as Max and parroted my every word. And I know a cuss word has never escaped Pop Pop’s lips. I just can't imagine Max has picked the phrase up on his preschool playground. 

I am about to ask. But Max has moved on. He is now listing all the video games his brother Marshall plays. 

And so our teaching moment has come, and now it has passed. 

Oh, What the hell, I think (but would never say). I’ll just let it go.