Note on my door

When I got home from a run to the supermarket, the following note was taped to my door:

Dear Momo,
I am going over to play with Jack. I didn't call you because I don't know where the sticky note with your phone number on it.

from
conor


This inspired several thoughts on raising children:

My name can't be spelled Mama, because the 'a' would make it sound Mah-Mah, whereas my name is clearly pronounced Maw-maw, which means it must be spelled with an 'o'. We have been debating this issue for about 4 years now.

I obviously must make sure that Conor knows where the sticky note is with my phone number on it every time I leave the house, even though it hasn't changed location in a year.

Isn't it great that we live in a neighborhood where Conor can disappear over and play with his friends.

Isn't it great that my son is responsible enough to leave me a note.

Isn't it great that enforcing consequences works in making kids responsible. Conor got brought straight home the last time he went to Jack's without telling me where he was.

Having an eight year old boy is the best thing in the world. Until next year.