Friday, August 31, 2007

It's not ME, it's everyone else.

I recently had a phone conversation with hubby's best friend, Peter. I had a technical question.

"Hey, Pete. There are several people I'd like to chat with in real time. What IM program thingy do you recommend?"

"I like Windows Live Messenger. You can set it up right now. Do you want me to walk you through it?"

"Sure, that'd be great!"

tap click click tap tap tap--continuing to talk on the phone

"Ummm, Peter? Can I sign in hidden so I'm not just always "on"? I really don't want everyone knowing every moment I'm on. That's a little too out-in-the-open for me."

"Click on File, then Status and decide from there."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Hey, Mouse, turn up your speakers and check it out!"

Peter plays a recording of music he and Youngest made together so I can hear it.

"Oh how fun! Ummm, but I don't have to have my mic turned on, do I? I mean I can just keep it text based only so my voice isn't heard, right?"

"Oh yeah. No problem. Okay--now look at the box in the upper right hand side."

Magically, in the video box, Peter appears making funny faces at me.

"Ha ha--good one, Pete. Ummm, but I don't have to have video on, right? I mean, people seeing me and my house--I can keep that off and just communicate via typing, right?"

"Mouse--are you sure you actually want to talk to these people?"

"Oh yeah! They're great--so much fun! Why?"

"Because you've asked me in every possible way how you can avoid communicating with them."


Some time ago, Young Guy (who is now a family friend) invited Mister and me for his birthday dinner.
"We'd love to! Thanks for the invite!"

"Good. You and Mister will get to meet my best friend from high school and my friend N. (Remember her? I used to date her?)"

"Oh. You mean there will be other people there?"

"Well . . . yeah . . . it's a birthday dinner."

"Oh gee, I just looked at the calendar. Sorry but we have plans for that night after all."

"Oh," said tersely.

In an unrelated story, a couple months later Young Guy had the stones to blatantly ignore my big birthday. WTF, right?


Beautiful works full time at the ballet studio now. The owner, Sara, is also opening a second branch of the school and has an overwhelming amount of work to do. Sara has been very good to Beautiful. A mentor. A fantastic role model. I so appreciate her influence in Beautiful's life that I would be willing to help her out in any way she needs.

"Beautiful, I know Sara's really busy right now. Does she need my help with anything?"

"Yes! Are you kidding? There's so much work to be done! Do you want to help with registration?"

"I'd like to, but I have no dance knowledge whatsoever so I would be unable to answer questions. Plus, that would mean dealing with people. And I don't like people."

"Okay. Oh--what about helping with marketing for the new school?"

"Sweetie, you know I don't have any marketing experience. Plus, it would mean talking to a lot of people. And I don't like people."

"Hmmmm. We definitely need help making all of our confirmation calls before the first week of classes begins."

"Calling and talking to people? Are you new here? I don't like people!"

"You know what, Mom? I think Sara and I are doing okay. Thanks for offering your help though."

Feels so good to know that I went out of my way to make Sara's life easier!


Mister's friend Randy has a condo at Lake Chelan. Earlier this summer he invited our family to stay there for a week. Mister was all for it and asked me about it.

"Sure. We could use a quiet week together," I answered.

"I'm not sure how quiet it's going to be with Randy there. Plus my brother and his girlfriend."

"You mean there will be other people there?"

"Yes, Kristin. And lots of other people will be vacationing in the other condos. In fact thousands of other people will be vacationing all over Lake Chelan. Not only that--there will be other people who will have the audacity to drive on the same roads we'll use to get there."


"Kristin, remember when I told you I wasn't sure if I could be married to you for another 40 years?"

"Yes." Asshat.

"Yeah. You might want to think that over while I'm at the lake with the kids and you're here. Alone."

It's not me. It's him. Because he's an asshat.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Drama, much? The flow chart.

I had what I thought was a funny idea. And then I had massive technical difficulties. So much so that I had to resort to old fashioned paper, glue, scissors . . . It was ugly. I hope this is legible . . .

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Countrymouse 101

This is my one-hundred-first post. I wanted to make a list of 101 random things. But ajooja already nailed that kind of post. Bastard.

I'm doing it anyway.

1. I am allergic to squid.

2. I discovered that fact in Spain when I was 15.

3. My friends and I were being adventurous and tried a dish called "calamari." Who knew?

4. I lost my virginity due to a misunderstanding.

5. My boyfriend and I were both confused about what the other one wanted.

6. We were both virgins. We didn't know what we were doing, but we cared very much about each other. I wouldn't change it.

7. I can't listen to the song "Tainted Love" by Soft Cell.

8. I have a visceral reaction to it and change the station the second I hear it start playing.

9. When I was 16, a radio station played it either right before or right after a news story about a teenage kid who went to jail overnight for traffic tickets. His parents opted not to bail him out so he would learn an important lesson about responsibility. He was placed in a cell with hardened criminal teenage thugs. He was tortured all night and found dead the next morning.

10. I connect that song with the dead boy, his awful death and his parents who must still writhe with guilt in their sleep.

11. Writing about that was difficult.

12. After my arm injury, I was forced to defer massage school until spring.

13. That bums me out.

14. A lot.

15. In a phone conversation with a friend I was relaying that news and I was surprised to feel my throat tighten up.

16. My friend didn't know what to do with that so he pretended not to notice and changed the subject.

17. I wish he would have acknowledged it.

18. During painful X-rays for aforementioned arm injury, I found comfort in the flowery smell of my deodorant. Weird.

19. Since buying my car 5 years ago, it has been hit no less than 4 times

20. The airbags have never deployed.

21. This troubles me.

22. I have 26 first cousins.

23. I like 5 of them.

24. My dog snores.

25. So does my husband.

26. My great-grandfather died on my 15th birthday.

27. Three of my four grandparents are still living.

28. All within 10 minutes of my house.

29. I see them about twice a year.

30. You don't know them. Or me. Don't judge.

31. I am meticulous about certain things.

32. Like keeping my hotel room spotless and organized when I'm out of town.

33. And having uber obsessively neat and tidy paperwork and planning notes when I volunteer for 4-H at the county fair.

34. But my house is regularly a disaster.

35. At the fair where I volunteer, I am the assistant to my dear friend Tracy. She is the County 4-H Sewing Superintendent.

36. Technically I am the Assistant Superintendent of 4-H Sewing for the entire county.

37. I don't sew all that much. And I don't really care about it. I'm only there to help Tracy and the 4-H kids.

38. Tracy loves to people watch. I'd much rather be sequestered in the office doing paperwork. Ridiculously meticulously.

39. Any form of sugar is a drug to me.

40. One of my favorite late night desperation snacks is saltine crackers and chocolate chips.

41. One night I was IMing with a friend who was stoned. He was trying to figure out how to cure his craving for sweets with Bakers' chocolate and limited other ingredients. I told him about saltines and chocolate. He asked me why I would ever eat such a thing. And then he tried it. Now he thinks I'm a freaking genius.

42. And he's right.

43. I'm embarrassed that I love sex as much and as frequently as most guys do.

44. I know that lots of women enjoy sex just as much as I do. But it feels trampy to admit it.

45. I have established a safety question to ask my daughter when she calls home late at night or when she's in circumstances I'm unsure of.

46. Neither of us can remember the right answer to the question.

47. I ask her the question and she asks, "Is it 'yes' or 'no' that means I'm fine?"

48. We both laugh and I'm comforted that she's okay.

49. I am desperately insecure.

50. I crave attention for certain things, but don't know what to do with it when I get it.

51. I think I'm unremarkable that way.

52. I used to be afraid every time I opened my car trunk that I would find a dead body.

53. I love very old country music.

54. But not country music newer than about 1972.

55. I used to be a medical transcriber.

56. In medical transcription, it's important not to make typographical errors.

57. Once I left a single letter out of a word, thereby drastically changing a man's diagnosis.

58. Instead of having a "foreign body" lodged in his eye, I typed that he had a "foreign boy" lodged in his eye. Sounds painful to me.

59. It was by way of transcribing for a family practitioner that I found out my then accountant has herpes.

60. The first time I gave a blow job was in the backseat at a drive-in movie.

61. My brother and his date were in the front.

62. I have no idea whether they knew what was going on.

63. I certainly had no idea what the hell I was doing!

64. My technique (and comprehension) have improved dramatically since that time ; )

65. From
Danish: The most bad-ass mother dudes in all of all of Europe.

66. That's right. I am Danish.

67. And a whole bunch of other stuff. But today I'm claiming mostly Danish.

68. After 6 or 7 years as a gymnast, I suddenly developed a fear of doing things backwards.

69. It affected all of my routines.

70. I had to give up vaulting entirely.

71. But I became adept at inventing interesting transitions so I could do a forward move where a backward one should have been.

72. I taught gymnastics for awhile in my early 20's.

73. I sucked at it.

74. I wish that I could draw or paint.

75. Or that I had an eye for photography.

76. Or that I had any artistic talent that I could pursue in the company of the people I love.

77. I don't share my writing with my family much.

78. I share it with strangers because I don't care how I am judged by strangers for the truth about myself that I write.

79. Or for the fiction I write about me : )

80. I secretly love The Partridge Family's "I Think I Love You." I find its pattern (sorry, I don't know music terminology) terribly interesting and not like most other pop songs.

81. I didn't know that song when I was a kid. I first really heard it sometime in my 30's.

82. Speaking of 30's, an acquaintance the other day said she thought I was in my early 30's.

83. I'm awfully vain. I loved that she thought I am that young.

84. And speaking of David Cassidy, his voice is not great. Not even good. But his brother Shaun's is decent.

85. I love everything about fall.

86. I have a memory of being about 8 or 9 and playing in the woods (as we did pretty much every day of my childhood.) It was fall and I was standing in a small clearing among maple trees. It was all filled with the yellow light of leaves on the ground and still in the trees. I remember the smell of that moment.

87. My friend Mary has the most sparkly, clear blue eyes. I notice that every Wednesday when I see her.

88. My husband has the most amazing and hunky arm and chest muscles. I notice that every time we have sex.

89. I am deathly afraid of carnival rides.

90. I liked them before I had children.

91. Youngest feels sad seeing handicapped children.

92. He asks me if mentally handicapped children can think and if they're happy.

93. I have a hard time answering those kinds of questions. Because I don't know either and it makes me sad too.

94. Youngest is also scared of carnies because they have missing teeth and use a lot of bad language.

95. He understands that they are people who have had difficult lives, but he's still afraid of them.

96. Number One Son and I have the shared experience of having such traumatizing nightmares at about age 10ish that neither of us could speak about those dreams for years and years and years. He still barely can.

97. When I was 7, one of my parents' friends was babysitting my brother and me. She dropped us off, along with her two daughters, at a park to play. When she picked us up, she took off while I was still holding on to the car door handle. My brother noticed I was missing and looked out the window to see me holding on and crying. The woman's reaction was, "Oh gee, I guess I should have counted noses."

98. To this day I do not respect that woman.

99. I once lost half a bikini while skinny dipping.

100. The last time I went skinny dipping was about 10 years ago with my husband on a family vacation. Late at night when the kids were asleep.

101. As a kid, I vacationed with my family on our boat in the San Juan Islands. Even now, waves rolling in on a gravelly beach remind me of summertime in the islands when I would rather have been at Disneyland. Now I'd give anything to be 10 years old and back in the islands with my mom and dad and brother.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Saying goodbye to a fine man.

Rick mentioned saying goodbye to his older son again as the new school year begins. Friday was the day we watched our own Number One Son head back over the mountains for his senior year. It was a good parting, but . . .

This was an uncomfortable summer for Number One. Whenever he comes home for Thanksgiving, spring break, etc., I notice that things change ever so slightly. They're good changes. They're natural changes. But they're still changes.

Number One is far less based here than he was even a year ago. His friends, his support group--his life--are mostly east of the mountains. His high school buddies don't really even come back for the summer anymore. He did get to spend some time with a few members of the old gang, but markedly less than in previous years.

He's in the engineering department at his university. Studying to be a mechanical engineer. He should have had an internship this summer and not been home at all. Unusual circumstances (miscommunication, timing, prior commitment) convened, eliminating his opportunities. A sting he felt keenly. It bothered him for the sake of his future and standing in his department. It hurt his 3.9 GPA pride. It undermined his growing sense of adulthood to have to spend another summer in the bottom bunk of his brother's room.

On the other hand, he was grateful for another summer to water ski. He enjoyed another summer to play and swim and hike with his little brother--bunk beds notwithstanding. He had looked forward to a week long road trip with his sister. But that was another bust. And a story unto itself.

He attended the wedding of two of his friends. A laid back, hippie-ish gathering. Right up Number One's alley. Yet it too was a reminder of things he hasn't yet figured out. He's a good looking kid. He's athletic, intelligent, driven, thoughtful, interesting . . . But he has no idea what to do with girls. How to approach them. How to talk to them. He doesn't know when he's being pursued. He doesn't know when not to pursue. He doesn't realize that he is so worried about coming on too strong and making a girl uncomfortable that his overtures are invisible. Just one more area that I believe he thought he would have a handle on by now.

And there's the matter of his changing relationship with me. He and I, during the junior high and high school years, were very close. We think similarly. We have much in common. Or . . . we did. Not so much any more. Because his life has changed. Because my life has changed. "Slow change may pull us apart," to quote a righteous old 80's tune. Continental drift.

I can see the disappointment in his eyes when Beautiful and I interact like sisters. He doesn't think it's healthy for either of us. And he may be right, but it is what it is. I acutely feel his letdown that I am raising Youngest far differently than I raised him. But he doesn't understand what it is to be 40 and have everything spiral out of control, making you question the value of everything you once thought was so important. He doesn't know the weariness of doing the same job for over 20 years.

I grazed these subjects with him about a week before he packed up and left. He didn't say much, but I recognized that look of sudden understanding and compassion on his face. That moment when he extends grace and allows his mother to be human.

Over his last few days home he decorated my cast with a delightfully silly comic, he bought me a dozen roses, and he put his arm around me for a photo--practically unheard of for my dedicated anti-demonstrative boy.

He may have had a less than stellar summer, but he leaves with maturity and understanding that are hard won. He leaves even more grown up than when he arrived back in May, but for different reasons than anyone could have predicted.

Goodbye again, Son. I hope for your return in November.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

I can't go to prison. I could never survive solitary confinement . . .

I want to change my answer! Once upon a meme I claimed my favorite thing to be "solitude." This week I have discovered my limit in that department. It's a frighteningly low threshhold . . .

The full expression of my tedium? I have just spent the better part of an hour answering asinine blogthings quizzes.

Your Heart Is Red
You're a passionate lover - you always have a huge fire in your heart.Too bad it's hard for you to be passionate about just one person!Your flirting style: Outgoing and sexy. Your lucky first date: Drinks and dancing. Your dream lover: Is both stable and intense. What you bring to relationships: Honesty

Seemed really accurate at the time . . . and important . . . and significant . . .

I think need to go watch CNN.

Note to the friend who invited me for a visit: I looked at airfare . . . should have followed up on that idea ; )

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

It's my pity party and I'll cry if I want to

I'm bored. And lonely. And bored . . .

I can't do anything.

I'm not supposed to do anything active whatsoever. I still am, but activity brings on swelling . . . and numbness . . . and some weird burning sensations . . .

TV sucks the life out of me. It's difficult to read or be on the computer for any length of time because discomfort sets in rapidly. I can't really cook because I can't chop, or rinse, or mix, or knead, or use two hands . . . I'm hungry.

Nobody's here. Beautiful works all day and has the audacity to have a social life at night. Mister and the boys are at a lake in Canada camping. The lake is gorgeous but I'm currently barred from swimming. It would almost literally kill me to sit and look at that heavenly, aquamarine body and not partake . . . So I didn't go. Sweet husband felt so guilty leaving me here, but the packing affair was chaotic such that I was grateful for the quiet once they left. And then five minutes went by and the boredom and loneliness set in. Spitefully.

As per the ER doc's orders, I saw my regular physician today. Know what he had to say? He looked at my X-ray and said, Wow! He had his nurse make me an appointment with an orthopedic specialist. That's all he did for me. No indication of how long this might take to heal. No advice on activity. Not even an exam. Just Wow! and a phone call. Not what I was hoping for. Waste of a $25 co-pay.

I wish my boyfriend would call. He's not my boyfriend. Just my friend. But referring to him in that voice makes me sound all cosmopolitan. Or trashy. Either way, it sounds more interesting than what I have going on here. Especially now.

My friend's existence bears not even a passing resemblance to mine. His world is not boring. His world does not smack of housewife. I need an infusion from his non-childrearing, non-mortgage, non-effing-TEDIOUS life. Especially now.

Quiet, reflective moments drip evenly by. Like Chinese water torture.

Did I already say I'm bored?

Sunday, August 12, 2007

war stories

When I am old and the weather changes, bringing aggravation to my arthritic left elbow, I shall delight in regaling my fellow nursing home captives with the story of the day I dislocated that elbow back when I was a badass kickboxer. I'll be one of the hippest old biddies in the joint!

Never mind how it really happened (it was an embarrassingly clumsy trip and subsequent noticeable fall) and just imagine me and my sidekick, Jackie Chan, ridding the world of evildoers. I took a bad hit and kept fighting the good fight until the bitter end!

  • I did NOT sit on a chair and try not to cry (and/or vomit) while awaiting the paramedics . . .
  • Don't imagine me being impatient with the soulless EMT who was attempting to take my blood pressure while my arm HURT LIKE A MOTHER . . .
  • And there are no witnesses who will corroborate the allegation that I barked at my dear husband who thought it was a good idea to give me choices as to my care . . .
  • Did I really accuse the ER physician, upon meeting him, of being there to hurt me more? Nahhhhhhh . . .

It's funny to me that while my sweet Mister drove faster than fast to get me to ER, and while I made sure he knew I was in plenty of pain, what worried me the most was the fact that I wasn't wearing my seat belt . . . go figure.

Nothing else of much note to report about the incident. Except to say that full sedation during the reset ROCKS!

I don't think I'll be posting much during the next couple weeks. But I will be obsessively checking all your blogs--my link to the outside world during what sounds like a phenomenally boring recovery : )

the forearm bone's connected to the nothing bone

Thursday, August 9, 2007

funky sh*t going down in the country

So, here's the thing you need to know about me: I am a fabulous mother. It's what I do.

  • Nutritious meals: check
  • Bedtime stories: check
  • Piano lessons: check
  • Great birthday parties: check
I'm a great mom.

Or, at least, I used to be.

Along about halfway through raising child number two I kinda lost my steam. Things began to slide a little. Standards slumped.

Youngest has suffered.

Among other things, Youngest has never enjoyed the blow-out birthday bashes afforded his big brother and sister. He hasn't had a proper birthday party for the last couple years. On one birthday, I served him and his friends (who happened to be gathering for play day anyway) mini bran muffins with candles. Youngest didn't even flinch. By that time, he was so happy to have any recognition whatsoever that he didn't realize what a lame excuse that was for a birthday nod.

The day is fast approaching that this young boy will no longer want a big ole' birthday party. This is probably my last year to throw him a decent celebration and make up for the lack of attention he's had for some time now. So this week I was a good mom, I threw him his dream party--a "rock star" party.

Thing is, I'm a little out of practice. I used to host the theme parties of the year. No detail overlooked--costumes, food, games, prizes, decor, goodie bags, music--I had it all! Not so much anymore. I searched waaaaaaaaaay back in my memory. How do you throw a kids' party again?

Rock star. That's what I had to work with. It started out well enough. I made invitations that looked almost like realistic Ticketmaster tickets. Youngest was impressed. And his expectations were WAY the hell up there.

After the initial burst of creativity, my momentum seized up like an oilless engine . . .

I confided in my friends that I couldn't think of what would pass for a "rock star" menu besides maybe Jack Daniel's and piles of cocaine. Ever the clear thinker, Mary, suggested maybe star shaped food. Mary has saved me. And the children.

We went to a park. I had fun decorations, but they seemed sparse for the location. The food turned out kinda lame compared to the vision in my head. No costumes, no games, no prizes. And no music. A "rock star" birthday party with no music. I suck at this.

I did provide kickass goodie bags. Rock star goodie bags. Money (chocolate money, of course,) jewelry (candy jewelry--naturally,) tattoos, and each guest received a CD of some of Youngest's favorite songs.

But Youngest is relatively new to classic rock. Seems we weren't paying close enough attention to the selections. To my horror, Steve Miller's "Jet Airliner" has the word sh*t in it. I had forgotten that. The rest of the songs were mild. Songs about illegal drugs, casual sex, nihilism, depression. And the occasional ode to devil worship.

I imagine the little party goers covering their ears and bewailing the sudden and unexpected loss of their innocence.

I'm going to take a hot bubble bath and forget the entire episode. Because that's what fabulous mothers do, right?

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

That Night

Because Cheek inspired me to let go and enjoy it for all that it was . . .

I know I have to stop thinking so often about you. I keep telling myself that, but . . . you're you . . . and I can't let go . . .

I know we can't be together, for so many compelling reasons. But that night we had together . . . Do you remember that night? That one night . . .

I can't explain why you have always been so special to me. I don't know if it's the way you look, or if it's the way you make me feel. But no matter how unfulfilling or unequal our relationship has been, I can't get past it. And I don't want to.

I was so ready for you that night. I had thought about it so many times. Thousands of times. That night fulfilled every promise. It was everything. The way you exhaled when my fingertips first touched you . . . how I inhaled your scent . . . the adrenaline rush when you touched me . . . I remember the taste of your sweet mouth . . .

You tickled me. I giggled. You made me want to dance with abandon. You made me want to sing--shapeless, formless songs . . . You whispered to me all evening until you were spent and we both quieted.

Is it okay for me to say this? Probably not. But I'm saying it anyway. I love you. I have since the beginning. I may never know how you really feel about me, but I will always love you.

That night . . .

Amy Winehouse loops over and over on my conscience. Exquisite, sticky web of guilt.

I cheated myself.
Like I knew I would.

I can't stop thinking of you. I can't stop wanting you.

I will recall that night as often as it takes so it never truly becomes part of the past. So close I can almost reach back and touch it.

That night . . .

That night when you held nothing back. You gave me everything that you are. And I savored every moment with you.

That night . . .

I am yours.

My beloved.

My Coca-Cola.

Monday, August 6, 2007

This is your brain on drugs.

Today, an example of how not to manage allergies.
Kids, don't try this at home.

I have run out of nasal spray. And I have run out of Claritin. Being whatever the opposite of a Type A personality is, I neither noticed the shortage nor planned any restoration efforts.

Instead, I waited until an emergency was declared and resorted to my last line of defense: Atarax.

I hate taking Atarax. It has some wicked side effects. Since I can never remember its real name, I lovingly refer to my little bottle of poison by my original interpretation of the scrawled hieroglyph on the prescription pad--Anthrax.

So--last night was a desperate enough emergency for me to take Anthrax. I don't know what I was thinking, but I convinced myself the situation was of such proportions as to warrant the full dose--2 tablets of Anthrax.

The thing about this drug is that one of the side effects is drowsiness. But the word "drowsiness" hardly describes what it does to me. In me, this drug induces a Rip Van Winkle like slumber. And there's some memory loss that goes along with it. Well, it's either memory loss or marked increase in my Alzheimer-like symptoms.

At some point in the night I woke up and stumbled around until I managed a glass of water. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why I was walking sideways and felt so foggy . . .

I attempted a kickboxing class this morning. I had nothing to give. My usually impressive right hook resembled something more along the lines of a gentle right caress, followed by a lean into the bag and what could have been confused for a tender embrace. And I never could decide if my vision was blurry because of the sweat dripping into my eyes or because . . . it was blurry. Today wasn't my best showing.

Later, standing at the kitchen sink I waited an interminable amount of time for the water to get hot. Dammit! Is that water heater acting up again?!? No. It wasn't the water heater. I had the tap turned all the way to cold . . .

In the car, I stopped at a red light. What the hell is with this light? It's taking for. effing. EVER. to change!!! Turns out it was a flashing red light. Flashing reds don't change with much regularity.

I attempted a pharmacy trip to refill the nasal spray. I didn't have the right information with me due to an insurance change. Instead of $10, it was going to cost me $70. So here's a tip: When the sweet little pharmacy clerk tells you your medication is going to cost 7 times what you expected, don't loudly exclaim "Oh, crap!" in the middle of the store. It might be considered rude. And clapping your hand over your mouth in a fit of embarrassment while apologizing to the sweet little pharmacy clerk might make her giggle, but it won't undo the classy display. No matter how hard you wish it would.

I napped a lot today. I got nothing done today. I emerged from my sleeping beauty rest at around 4:30 and realized I hadn't remembered to take anything out of the freezer for dinner. I told the boys I was making a quick run to Albertson's for one of their chicken dinners and assured them I'd be right back. Number One called me at 7 wondering if I was coming home. I'd gotten side tracked . . .

Finally this evening I decided I was done. There was no more damage I could do, so I called it a day. In my bedroom changing clothes, I caught sight in the mirror that I'd been wearing my bra inside out. Great.

I don't care how stuffy and miserable I am, the relief this medication offers just isn't worth it. This drug should be reserved for only the most dire of circumstances. Like to disable enemies. Or maybe to confuse loved ones for the sake of entertainment . . .

Thursday, August 2, 2007

Talk the Talk

Youngest will be 12 in two weeks. He's a young 12. Not matured in body or mind yet. But he's getting there . . .

My husband and I have always subscribed to the theory that "the facts of life" should be revealed slowly, as the children ask questions and are ready for the information. So you'll forgive me the answer I gave to Youngest when he was 4 and asked what people did to get babies. I gave him the information I knew he was emotionally prepared for at age 4. And nothing more. And it's not because I'm chicken sh*t and didn't want to deal with that conversation. I just don't believe in overwhelming a child with more than what he can handle.

Eight years later, Youngest is in the kitchen making eggs and I'm at the computer:



"Remember when I was little and I asked how people got babies?"

No, no, no, no, no!!!!! I do NOT want to have the-birds-and-the-bees talk with you!!! NOOOOOOOO!!! And no, I am not chicken sh*t.

"Yes, I remember."

"You told me they prayed?"

Inward chuckling . . . No, I wasn't chicken sh*t when he was 4. He wasn't ready, that's all.

"Yes, I told you that."

"Well, some people don't believe in God . . . "

Loooooooooooooooooooong pause . . .

"Son, are you asking me if there's something else people do besides pray to get babies?"

"Do I want to know?"

And now I'm gently laughing out loud and even he has an amused look on his face.

"Well, Kiddo, by the way you just phrased that question, I'm guessing you're not quite ready?"

"Yeah. Maybe not quite."

"No problem. But when you are ready--ask your dad."

Okay, I'm chicken sh*t.