I bit my lip. I tried to act cool; I didn’t want to blow my “made of steel” M.O. I told my son I had been stung.
Later, in a moment of mental weakness, I said to him, “Man, when I got stung, that really hurt. I don’t remember stings hurting that bad.”
His eyes lit up like a prosecutor who had just cornered the guilty party. “I told you,” he said, “you’re not made out of steel.”
And that’s how I know: He actually thinks I am.
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