Tertius still being a first-grader for another two weeks, I have to make eye contact with his teacher before she'll release him from her aegis on the school's playground. (You'd think on a Friday this close to the end of term, she'd just be shoveling them out of the door with a merry lilt.) So I'm on my way to pick him up, when Primus looms into view around the corner of the school building, heading for home.
He is wearing one "heelie," those comically oversize shoes built to hold a wheel, which encourages show-off pre-teens to scoot around Costco at fifteen miles per hour, like hyperactive daleks, until they break their ankles and have to be shot. (Fortunately, Primus has yet to master balancing, and school rules force him to leave the rollers at home.)
His other foot is completely bare.
"It's because of a bowl of breakfast cereal," he explains with a grin as I pass.
Of course it is. I kiss him on the head, and we both continue on our way. He's eleven. It makes perfect sense.