Testosterone Poisoning Is Making My Son Retarded

The First Born has finally got his phone, DS, and computer privileges back after 2 long months.  Now, had it been me who had lost the above mentioned electronics for not turning in my homework in an expeditious (or, really, AT ALL) manner, you can bet that I would be pretty diligent about getting my little ducks in a row.  Not this yutz.  Today's homework conversation went as follows:

Me:  "Did you have homework to turn in today?"
FB:  (Looking all around, mumbling incoherently and generally irritating me) "Not really."
Me:  "What does that mean?  You either did or you didn't."
FB:  "Well, she....um...see....I didn't...um...."
Me:  "SON, did you have homework last night?"
FB  "Yes."
Me  "Did you turn it in today?"
FB  "No. She didn't ask for it."
Me:  "When she gave you the assignment, did she tell you when it was due?"
FB  "Yes."
Me  "Was it due today?"
FB  "Yes."
Me:  *crickets*  "Then you should have turned it in whether she asked you for it or not, because it was DUE TODAY."
FB:  "Oh."

What makes this conversation most frustrating is that it is not the first, or even fifty-first time we've had the same conversation, only with minor variations.

I've been making peanut butter balls because it's time to make such things.  I hate Christmas baking.  You'd think that I'd enjoy it more since it only comes around once a year, but that is not the case.  As with putting lights on the tree, I am a surly misanthrope until I get the bulk of this crap done.  Seriously, some day, I'm just going to say, "Let's go to Caymans for Christmas" just so I can enjoy this stinkin' holiday.  But my point was not to blather on about my Grinchly attitude.  That is for another post.  No, I'm still on the boy not being able to think his way out of a paper bag secondary to toxic testosterone poisoning.  I was making said peanut butter balls (you remember them?  I was talking about them right up there, see?), and dodging Labrador lips at the same time, because Crackhead hasn't yet figured out that I mean STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN when I growl it at him 25 times a minute.  Unlike Knucklehead McSpazatron, who so obediently lies by the couch and eyes me like a vulture wondering about the sick lion.  It was time to go get Spawn of Satan from the bus, so I said, "FB? I'm going to the bus stop; keep an eye on the dogs so they don't get the peanut butter balls."  As I received assurance that he would guard the peanut butter balls like his own, I went to the bus stop, which is only about 500 feet from the house, by the way.  I wasn't gone an eternity for the love of Mike!  (Mike?  Mike Rowe?  *sigh*)  SoS and I get back and the dogs are locked in the office with FB.  Ingenious!  I think.  The boy is using his noggin to make sure that the PBBs are safe!  Then I hear, "Mom?  The dogs pulled the peanut butter balls off the counter, but it's okay; I put them back."  I was greeted by a counter full of mushy, slushy, LICKED peanut butter balls.  And that child thought everything was A-OK.  I'm about to have him tested.