“Mom, why do they call you the Stud Whisperer?”
“The . . . what?”
“Why do they call you the Stud Whisperer?”
“Who calls me that?”
“They do.”
“Martin, I have no idea what . . . ”
Then I got it. Months ago, Tom and I were hanging a shelf on the wall, and I bragged about my stud-finding abilities. (The kind of stud which are those heavy beam things behind the wallboard, of course. Though I have also had good luck with the other kind.) I can tap oh-so-gently on the wallboard and pinpoint exactly where the studs are very quickly and with uncanny accuracy. I said, cocky as ever, “They call me the Stud Whisperer.” The name seems to have stuck in Martin’s memory for all these many months.
I can just hear him twenty years from now: Lemme tell you about my mama. . . they call her Stud Whisperer . . .
Kids…they can’t hear you when you ask them to do something but, goodness, they hear everything else.
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Priceless.
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