After a fabulous dinner and before a fabulous dessert, The Boy had the great idea to put on The Incredibles, which I quite literally have not watched since March 16th, 2005. (Yes, I know the exact date.  It was a big deal.)

It was cool to watch it now, several years later.  I found some striking resemblences.  I’m still stretching myself too thin.  Bryan still thinks he’s strong enough to shoulder anything by himself.  And The Boy still moves at speeds that amaze even the fastest runners.

Yep, many resemblences.

(or, at least, today’s example)

We’re standing in line at Target.  The Boy has been antsy (at best) during the trip, and we’re all eager to get home.  The heat is stifling.  On the whole, though, it’s been a great day.. one of those invaluable days where we really do feel like a family, rather than some jumbled attempt at a nuclear unit.

The Boy turns to me, nonchalantly, as we’re checking out and says, “We have nerds in our class at school.”

I wasn’t fazed.  “Nerds?  Like the candy?”

He shook his head.  He hasn’t yet figured out that when I ask questions like this, it’s because I’m already planning the discussion.  I enjoy his naivete.  “No, Sarah, not the candy.  Nerds.  Like, people.”

I shrugged.  “I guess I don’t know what these nerds are.  What are nerds?”

“You KNOW,” he begins again, “nerds.  Like, people.”

Bryan piped in.  “I was a nerd.”  And then he went back to unloading the cart.

“You were?!” The Boy was incredulous.  I stifled a laugh.

“OH, you mean people who like to read and do their homework and study.  Yes, I was a nerd, too.” I said.  “In fact, I was a big nerd.”  His head was performing a tennis match between us, trying to absorb that adults might be proud to wear this title.

“They wear glasses,” he said. 

“YOU wear glasses,” I countered.

“Not every day,” he retalliated.  “And I play football.  Nerds can’t play football.”  He fell silent for a minute, thinking about how else he could not be a nerd.  “I also go four-wheeling,” he said.

“OH.  You’re not a nerd.  You play football and you go four-wheeling.  You’re a REDNECK.”  He gasped, as if I had just called him something worse than a nerd.  I must’ve hit the low end of the name-calling pool.  The cash register giggled at our conversation then leaned in to give his own advice:

“Nerds become very rich when they grow up.  I would much rather be a nerd than a redneck.”

Bryan and I nodded and went on our way.