You look like a handsome young man…although you might want to zip your fly. Mom! What? Should I have not told you and left it for everyone else to notice at the dance?

Finally the kitchen clock said 5:17. It was time to roll out. I shouted for my mom, woke Jeffrey up, ran upstairs, changed into my concert clothes, put on my shoes, and was standing by the door to the garage by 5:19—chanting “Let’s go! Come on!” (Feel free to try that at home, by the way; moms love it!)

But nobody ever tells you in advance when you should concentrate on the good times-that's why you're supposed to do it every day.

Hi, Tad!' she said. 'Hi, Jeff! Hey, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?' 'Uh, no,' I said. 'We were just...I mean, Tad was...uh, nope.' 'So what were you guys talking about?' 'Well,' I said, 'it's very complicated. We were discussing...umm...hats. You know, hats. Like, the head kind.' 'There's another kind?' Lindsey asked. 'Hey, Jeff?' Tad said. 'If your mom needs any evidence to prove that you're retarded, let me know. I'd be glad to record you talking to Lindsey. I'm pretty sure that would do the trick.

You are a wonderful son, and a wonderful man. Yet another parent busting forth with the “man” thing! I’d have to check my chest for signs of hair when I got home.

Did you really JUST fall, Jeffrey? Why does everybody in my family talk in these dramatic CAPITAL LETTERS all the time? Why am I the only calm one?

If you promise you will get better instead of dying, I promise I will, too.