There are few things more humbling than sitting down with your spouse to discuss the budget. It starts as a simple conversation about money and somehow morphs into a grim strategic war council where every expense is a battlefield casualty.
Jo had that “we-need-to-tighten-up” look on her face, which, if you’ve been married long enough, you know means bad news is incoming. I braced myself. The power bill? New brakes? A subscription service the kids secretly signed us up for that ships glitter slime from Finland?
Nope. It was the dreaded phrase:
“Our taxes went up.” Cue the ominous thunder.
Now, when Jo says “taxes,” what she means is we are being financially mugged by the local government for the crime of existing. And we were mid-sentence, her calculating with a pen, me quietly weighing the cost of raising free-range chickens on a city lot—when Logan walked in.
My oldest. Eleven years old. Still thinks Pop-Tarts are a food group and that jobs are something people do for fun.
He hears the word “taxes” and, without missing a beat, goes full soapbox:
“I hate taxes!”
Now, let’s pause here. He said this with the conviction of someone who’s had to itemize deductions on a Schedule C. Like he’s just finished arguing with the IRS about his 1099. Like he’s felt the soul-draining ache of April 15th.
But Logan doesn’t even know what gross income means. He just knows “taxes” sound like something you should hate.
So naturally, I asked:
“Do you even know what taxes are?”
He shrugs. “No. But it sounds bad.”
Reader, I almost stood and saluted him. Because while the boy has no clue what taxes are, he instinctively understands what they do, and that’s the kind of generational trauma you just can’t teach.
He’s never had to pay property tax. He’s never stared at a pay stub and asked, “Who’s FICA and why is he stealing my money?” He doesn’t even know we pay a tax on snacks that the state has decided are “luxury items.” (I’m not kidding. Doritos are apparently decadent now.)
And yet somehow, through osmosis or maybe just watching me sigh dramatically every time I open a bill, he’s internalized the deep truth of adulthood:
If it says “tax”, it’s probably awful.
I laughed. Jo laughed. Logan stood there beaming, thinking he’d just contributed meaningfully to our adult conversation, when in reality, he just summed up the entire American tax code better than most politicians.
So here we are. Logan’s officially on record as hating taxes. He joins a list of Virginians he can be proud to be amongst. His newfound hate of taxes that he doesn’t understand, and doesn’t care. He just knows they sound bad and probably want his money all twelve cents. And honestly?
He’s not wrong. He’s just… early.
hope today is a taxless one,
austininva
