Adding Insult to Injury

I mentioned that we are attending the Man-Cub's Freshman orientation at the high school, tomorrow, didn't I?

I wept over the rapidly diminishing childhood of my last-born, right?

I may have also mentioned that my reproductive organs are now dustier than King Tut's tomb, at least, I think I did...

Yeah, well, it gets worse.

Hugh taught the Man-Cub how to shave this weekend.

How to shave.

I personally didn't think that-at the tender age of fourteen-the Cub needed to shave. I mean, just because the shadow from his burgeoning mustache occasionally caused me to suggest that he wipe the cookie crumbs off his upper lip didn't automatically mean that I was ready to surrender this last vestige of his childhood or that I was in any big hurry to enter a world wherein my son will regularly list shaving cream on the weekly grocery list.

That nonsense could have waited a few more months, at least.

Granted, Hugh made similar noises of protest when I took it upon myself to let The Teenager shave her legs back when she was eleven, but, in my defense, girls are just plain mean and she was being teased at school; I've never once heard the Man-Cub's friends rib him about the caterpillar crawling across his face.

And, now, we'll never know if that's how it would have gone down or not.

We'll never know, Hugh!

Also, don't come crying to me when your after-shave goes missing; you reap what you sow, my friend. You reap what you sow.

Sigh.

So, yeah...

...I have a clean-shaven-soon-to-be-high-school-freshman on my hands.

I just threw up in my mouth a little.