I NEED a BUS BOY

I think one of the differences between an eight year old and an eighteen year old is the eight year old still thinks you know everything and the eighteen year old thinks you shouldn't be trusted with sharp objects.
Since I had a few days off this past week I had the opportunity to spend time with mothers of teenagers.
I also spent time with mothers of young children.
The contrast between the two is incredible.
When my son was still in the "riding in the grocery cart stage" I used to stroll through the store casually picking up a few items on my limited budget, trying to keep my eye on my daughter who was usually a few steps ahead of me trying to buy a few of her own "things". The cereal box with a picture of what toy would be inside.
Imagine my surprise when I reached the check-out and my little cherub in the seat had thrown about $50 worth of "stuff" in my cart. One day I asked Julie to watch him for a second while I ran back to pick up something I had forgotten. When I was on my way back to the cart they were having a tug of war over a bag of chocolate chip cookies. The bag ripped open and there were cookies everywhere. He was stuffing them in his mouth as fast as he could.
If I had known then that those two sweet little children would later be teenagers and turn on me, I would probably have left them at the check-out that day.
I was at Porter's Restaurant the other night and as I was sitting there, the owner yelled, "We need a bus boy out here," and my little cherub came out and cleared off the table.
Now I know what I've been doing wrong. I didn't give him a title. From now on, when I need the trash burned, I'll yell, "I need a trash boy," or the grass cut, I'll yell, "I need a lawn boy." If it works I'll patent it.