Page 1 of Pregnant in Pennsylvania

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“Hey, Mom?” Aiden, my eight-year-old son, is on the floor, playing with LEGO®bricks, building what looks like is going to be a robot.

“Hmmm?” I’m absently scrolling through Facebook gossip about the new principal at Aiden’s elementary school, but mostly watching Aiden build his robot.

“Why did Principal Mackey quit?”

I look away from my phone and focus on Aiden. “What? Oh—he didn’t quit, honey, he retired.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Quitting would mean he decided he didn’t want to work there anymore, like he got a new job or something. But Principal Mackey isretiring, which means he’s not working at all anymore.”

Aiden uses his teeth to pry apart a couple of pieces, spitting one out and placing the other in a particular spot. “So what’s he gonna do all day, then?”

I laugh. “I don’t know, sweetie. Golf? Work in his garden? Travel with Mrs. Mackey?”

He uses his teeth to pry apart two more pieces. “Sounds boring.”

“He’s been a principal for thirty-eight years, so maybe he’s ready for some boredom,” I say. “Don’t use your teeth, Aiden. You have, like, three of those orange piece-remover things.”

He rolls his big gray eyes at me. “Yeah, but Bobber chewed one up, I lost one, and the other one is in this huge pile somewhere,” he says, gesturing at the big box of Lego pieces. “Anyway, my teeth work just as good.”

Bobber is my parents’ dog, and a mischievous little thing.

“But your teeth might break,” I say.

“Dude, it’s fine.” His slightly too-long blond hair dangles in front of one eye, and he brushes it away absentmindedly.

I frown at him, nudging him in the ribs with my toe. “Don’t call me dude,dude.”

He wiggles away from my toe—his ribs are his most ticklish spot. “Okay, okay!” He settles back on the floor when I stop tickling him. “I won’t call you dude…buddy.”

“Don’t press your luck,buddy,” I tease. “I was gonna do pizza for dinner, but I could make grilled chicken and broccoli instead…”

Aiden shoots me a horrified expression. “Have mercy, Mommy dearest! Anything but that!”

I laugh, tickling him again with a toe. “Don’t you forget it, mister.”

Aiden cackles, squirming away and tossing Lego pieces at me in self-defense.

Our doorbell rings, just then—three times in quick succession, followed by the sound of the door opening: it’s my best friend, Cora. “Is thereticklinghappening in this room?” she says by way of hello, jumping into the living room with her hands clawed.

Aiden scrambles to his feet with alacrity. “Nope! There was no tickling happening.”

“I think there was!” Cora says, her voice energized with wicked glee. “I know the sound of tickling, and I WILL NOT BE DENIED!”

I laugh as Aiden takes off running, scattering Legos everywhere as he tries to escape Cora; it’s hopeless, though—Cora loves nothing as much as to tickle Aiden until he begs for mercy. Indeed, the pursuit is short—Cora corners him by the couch, wraps him in her arms from behind, and tickles his ribs until he’s half crying and begging her to stop.

She stops tickling, but doesn’t let go right away, peppering his forehead and cheeks with kisses until he’s ripping free with a fake disgusted shudder, wiping at his face.

“You always get lipstick on me, Aunt Cora,” he complains.

She licks her thumb and extends it toward him. “Here, I’ll get it off…”

“NO! That’s even worse! It’s bad enough when Mom does it!”

Cora pretends to shuffle sadly to the couch, slumping down onto it as if he’s ruined her entire life. “Fine, whatever, see if I care. No more tickles, no more kisses.”