Bob stepped off the bus yesterday, arms laden with an enormous topographical diorama. (No. I have no idea if that's what it's really called. It sounds good, though, and for the most part seems accurate.)
It was splendid. Awash with glitter and clay, streaked with vibrant shades of purple and red and green, all depicting volcanoes and mountains and deltas and on and on, it was breathtaking to beyond.
"Wow," I said, while secretly worrying where exactly one stores a ginormous topographical diorama long-term. "That's amazing."
Bob nodded. "Mmm-hmmm."
"I mean, it's really something."
He sighed and set it down on the kitchen island. "Yeah, I guess so."
(And please, for the record, let me just say it encompassed the entire kitchen island, plus a solid two-inch overhang.)
When Hubby got home later that night, he walked into the kitchen and froze.
"Wow," he finally said.
"You're being redundant," I said. "I've already covered that."
"It's...huge," he offered. "And...sparkly."
That it was. Very huge and very sparkly. But we're Bob's parents and it's our job to support his educational endeavors, so we gushed, extolled his creative abilities, and praised him to the heavens at dinner.
"I'm impressed," Hubby said. "That's quite the project you brought home."
"Yeah, it is," Bob said. "It was really heavy too."
"It must have been a lot of work."
"I guess," Bob said.
"How long does something like that take to create?" I asked. And I was really curious, because given the size of that sucker and the amount of glitter now littering my kitchen floor, I was thinking it had to have taken months, and at least a vat of glitter.
"No idea," Bob said.
Hubby and I stared at him. No idea? What was he talking about?
"How can you have no idea?" Hubby asked.
Bob shrugged. "It's not mine. Some girl on the bus asked me if I wanted it, so I said yeah, why not, and took it home."
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