"Mama," my eleven-year-old son said. "Can you stop and get pizza after work?"
I looked at the kid. "Dude, it's going to be late. I don't get done until 9:00, and the last thing I'm going to want to do, is wait around for a pizza."
"But I'll pay for it," he offered.
"No, Bubba. Maybe some other time."
He looked despondent. "I promised my friends at school that I'd bring in a pizza for lunch. They did some nice things for me, so I wanted to do something nice for them."
"Can you make it another day, Bubba?" I pointed to the laundry that was piled up in my room, waiting to get folded. "I need to take care of this when I get home."
"I'll fold it for you if you get pizza," he said.
It was obvious that he really wanted that pizza. "Fine," I said. "You can fold the laundry. That will help."
I went to work, and stopped to get pizza afterward. When I rolled into the house, my son was thrilled that I had gotten the pizza.
"Did you do the laundry?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "You can go see."
I went up to my room. There was no longer a big pile of clothes that needed to be folded. There were four piles of clothes that needed to be folded. I shook my head.
"Dude," I called. "I thought you did the laundry."
"I did," he said. "I sorted them into piles of your clothes, dad's clothes, my clothes, and my sister's clothes. All you need to do is put them in the drawers."
Okay. Apparently I have to teach my boy a thing or two about folding laundry.