Why are you so bossy right now Mommy?
P.S. Send a note back.
My son's first letter, everything spelled correctly! And with a post script! I'm kvelling, clutching the letter to my breast. My son, my son!
My artistic genius! On the note he had scribbled a portrait in blue crayon of someone with angry hair, and fang-like teeth (one assumes this person is me), picking a booger, wearing sweatpants and all I can think is, that little genius! A skewering satirist! My son! I want to knuckle his hair, he's like some kind of trickster god Loki. Genius communicator! Like Mercury, of messages. My son!
Out of this blue, sweatpants-wearing person's head is coming the thought bubble: "Boss."