Well, I know there's a difference, but I don't know!
My son, whom I would have sworn was reciting rap lyrics to himself (if I'm lucky, it was the Geto Boys), took the chicken wing from his mouth, rolled his eyeballs back to the front of his head where they belonged, and casually schooled us as he lounged back in his chair for all the world like a young sahib: "You invent something in your head, thinking about it; you create it with your hands, in front of you."
Yes, Grasshopper. Yes, my baby. Way to shut Shawn up!
Then, of course, it was on to Iran, and Shawn snotted something about turning the other cheek, and I intoned piously, "Seventy times seven," just to piss him off and because libs should quote holy Scripture more, and my buttercup piped up like Rain Man with "Four hundred and ninety."
"Is it?" Shawn asked, because, after all, we were drinking, and it's not like we couldn't have done the math, we just hadn't.
"Duh!" said my son, with acid preteen wit, and then, with all the sarcasm at a young man's command, asked: "Why don't you buy the bookHow to Multiply?!"
He said it with italics too.
And after that, Shawn had to go home.
Having my son around is like keeping a loaded gun in my purse—a little, pearl-handled thing that'll put wicked-neat holes in you. What could he have done to the Witch of the West?