Ok, so maybe I am.

(Don't tell anyone I'm actually blogging twice in a row. It'll be our little secret.)

Last night, the husband and our two oldest boys got it in their heads to go picking through a couple old boxes of pictures. They came across some of mine from middle and high school. (They're really bad-picture gold. If I remember to bring them in to work to scan, I might post one or two.) Giggling, my 8 year old tells me I was a nerd.

I shrugged and told him there's nothing wrong with being a nerd. (I restrained myself from saying, "The Geek shall inherit the earth." It was a stretch. I was proud of myself.)

A few minutes later, he holds a picture up and says, "See? You look like such a nerd."

"I don't get what's nerdy about that one." I took the snapshot and examined it. "I'm in your father's barracks room, and I'm even wearing his t-shirt." I squinted at the picture, tilted it a little to the side.

"What are you doing?" the husband asked.

"I'm trying to see what book that is in my hand."

"God," he laughed. "You really are a nerd."

(For the record, it was Send No Flowers, by Sandra Brown.)