He is a kid I get. I know the reason he doesn't like to write is that his letters don't look perfect. I usually understand, if not actually support, the reasons he throws a fit. I get his jokes and why he thinks they're jokes, even if they're not. I know how he describes memories and people so I usually know what he's talking about even when everyone else is only entertained and mystified.
But there are two things about him that I seriously don't get.
1. He is really attached to our 1941 house. Like, really attached, as in last night he was weeping at the thought of leaving these walls. "These walls are my friends!" he wailed. For nearly an hour after we sent him back to bed with assurances and hugs. I guess he didn't get the memo that this house is done doing us favors and is getting pretty needy. Onward and upward and away from here. (And although this is another story, we have hit just about every single hiccup we could with our new house, but it IS happening.)
2. He hates peanut butter.
How did he even come from me?