Noah Bogdonoff

A Good Mother

It is in the third grade that I begin to consider the possibility that Georgie will be a better writer than I am. I’m picking him up from school when he turns to me and says, “The homeless men will ride lobsters.” I nod like I do when I’m not a good enough mother to care about the oddities that fall from my child’s mouth with increasing frequency. I nod like I do when I think something sounds stupid. But he goes on. “And the police will ride in shopping carts. Who do you think will win?”