It’s been gray, cold, and occasionally wet here in southern California. It rained on and off this past weekend so we had to contend with a bored Matthew. A bored Matthew is an annoying Matthew.

Matthew lives in a state of general unhappiness:

• All the good toys are broken or need batteries or both.

• He’s cold but he doesn’t want to dress more warmly.

• He wants to talk, but I won’t let him.

• I’m boring.

• Why can’t he have more toys? Did you bring me one? It’s not fair!

• Where is Santa?

• He’s hungry but doesn’t like any food I make, and in fact, he doesn’t know what he wants—but not this.

I cannot tell you how much I don’t care about these problems. If I were to quantify my level of care of these problems, it would be in the range of low single-digit yoctograms per cubic astronomical unit (yg/AU³). Just sayin’.

On the other hand, when he tells me he needs “hugth and kitheth” then I’m all over that.

On Saturday, after way too much time together, we decided to go get a burger and fries. “Papa, I bored.” We found a robot—”Papa, take my picture!”—and a trampoline and an escalator and an elevator.

On Sunday, we went to the San Diego Natural History Museum. I was positive he would be captivated by the dinosaurs.

But once Matthew (our son, the academic) saw they had a cafeteria, we had to go there to get Nacho Cheese Doritos and a thoda. He has never had Nacho Cheese Doritos.

After that, we discovered they had an elevator and we went to the top floor and worked our way down. It took less than forty-five minutes to see the entire museum because 1) Matthew can’t read; 2) Matthew has a limited capacity to understand concepts like time, evolution, location, geography, and size; and 3) He was bored. At a museum. That we paid $40 to get into.

We drove to the local mall for errands and then stopped to get a burger and fries. He loves his soda.

He fell asleep on the ride home.

We’ve been having more than our usual share of unhappy meltdowns. When I pick him up at school, I also get his friend Charlie (from another class) and Charlie’s nanny. It’s 3:20 pm when I pick them up and both Charlie and Matthew are tired and hungry, which means they’re in nasty moods.

As I checked him out of class, someone walked up to his teacher and gave her a little bag of popcorn. Matthew immediately wanted a bag of popcorn and when I told him no, he burst into big tears. I finally got him into the car seat, but he kept asking about popcorn. I already know the trajectory of this ride: tears all the way home with whining and petty commentary (from him, not from me—my commentary is witty and scathing and petty). After the thirtieth time, we were still on the school driveway when I pulled over and turned around.

“Matthew, I already told you I don’t have popcorn. I’m not going to get popcorn. We have popcorn at home if you want it, but stop asking me about popcorn for this ride. And stop crying. You can have water and you can have whatever is in the snack box but if you ask me about popcorn again, I’m going to pull over and spank your bottom. Do you understand me?”

His eyes got big and he sniffled and nodded. And all I could think of is that I’ve become my mother—the only things missing are a Benson & Hedges Menthol 100 hanging from my lip, a wig that is ever-so-slightly askew, and the cloying smell of cigarette smoke, Estée Lauder, and AquaNet.

I think I need even more therapy.

The chicos and I have a nasty head cold. The worst is over for all of us, but I’m coughing up phlegm from 1987. A couple of nights ago I could hear both chicos coughing and I’m sure they could hear me—my bedroom is under theirs—and it occurs that this could be the soundtrack to a tuberculosis ward. And if I have to go out from tuberculosis, you can bet I’ll be Satine (Nicole Kidman) and I’ll do the entire Hindi Sad Diamonds scene right before I expire.

These things must be planned. And well-lighted.