I Don't Raise Them Weird - They Do That All On Their Own

He teeters on the precipice of a preteen nightmare, stuck in this tango of child and mini-man and I find myself relishing the moments he is all child: wild, ridiculous, unreined, glorious child.  Like this:

He holds up the baggie, proud like it's full of something spectacular - like gold he panned by his own sweat, or moon rocks found in the south field, or a minecraft cheat code that turns simulated water into simulated jello.

"Today we learned how to extract banana DNA!" Something about mushing and blending and salt and dish soap and rubbing alcohol.  "I wanted to bring mine home to show you...we already got the DNA out of it but it just looks cool."

What it really looks like is what a body would look like if you sealed it up in plastic and left it to decompose down to soup.  Rank, brown, little-bits-floating-around, if-you-drank-it-you'd-die soup.

"That's gross, Zander.  You can't keep that.  It'll smell up the whole house."

"But I want it!  His name is Steve!  I have named him Steve. You can't throw him out."

"I'm sure Steve's feelings won't be hurt."

"Steve is a person too, you know!  Don't you have a heart???"

And poor Steve lays on the table all DNA-less and soupy and the whole thing is just ridiculous.

"Well then can I make a Stevesicle? Can I put him in the freezer?  Can I freeze him?  And then I'll bury him in the garden and we'll have a funeral and everything."

Ridiculous.  But loveable.

Stay out of my freezer.  There's a banana cadaver in there.