Call me

This was Mark's last week of school, and he commemorated it by exchanging phone numbers with all his friends. He discussed it with me yesterday morning.

"Hey Mom, is it okay if I give some of my friends our phone number?" he asked.

"Of course," I answered. "Just give them the home phone number." I don't need a bunch of 10-year-old boys calling me on my cell phone at work.

"Uh oh," he said, and when I looked up at him, he gave me a cheesy grin.

"You already passed out my cell phone number?" I asked, and he nodded, then gave me another cheesy grin he tried to pass off as charming.

But karma bit him back. He was showing me his school yearbook when I noticed a decidedly girly signature, accompanied by a phone number.

"Did you get a girl's phone number?" I asked, prodding him playfully.

But he grimaced and pushed me away.

"She wanted to write it," he protested. "I told her I didn't want it, but she wrote it anyway!" He turned a bright shade of red, but I couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or anger.

"Wow, you're quite the player," I told him. I looked at it again, and asked, "Did she really sign this 'Prinsess Laya'?"

"Yeah," he scoffed. "And she didn't even know how to spell it right, and she's in fifth grade! She asked a first-grader how to spell it!"

"You got a phone number from an older woman?" I tried not to smile too brightly.

"Whatever," he snorted. He was done, and tried to distract me by saying, "Look what Nathan wrote. He's funny."

"Hey Dainty Dinsdale," Nathan had scribbled, "hope you have a great summer. You twerp!"

"He is funny," I agreed, although I'd probably punch anyone who called me dainty or a twerp. Boys definitely have a different way of conversing with each other than girls do.

But hey, on the bright side, if my cell phone rings and the caller greets me with, "Hey, twerp," I'll know who it is right away.