Today, Cole's sweet teacher who he had for Kindergarten sent me a really cool quote. (She's one of those people that is always forwarding things - you know, you see their name in your in-box and think "How nice, I'm so glad to get a message from her" and then you realize she has sent it to you and every blessed soul she's ever met.) Anyway, this whole election thing has gotten me worked up and stressed about what is happening to the work ethic in America.
This quote is by an early 20th century American clergyman named Rev. William J.H. Boetcker: "You cannot help the poor by destroying the rich. You cannot strengthen the weak by weakening the strong. You cannot bring about prosperity by discouraging thrift. You cannot lift the wage earner up by pulling the wage payer down. You cannot further the brotherhood of man by inciting class hatred. You cannot build character and courage by taking away people's initiative and independence. You cannot help people permanently by doing for them what they could and should do for themselves."
Amen.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
OBAMA IS A LLAMA
With all of the election talk and coverage going on, and the current economic crisis, Cole and I have had a number of political discussions. Not sure if you count me lecturing about the insanity of me/us having to bail out people who took on mortgages for houses they couldn’t afford and my growing anger at the number of Obama signs in my neighborhood as “discussions,” but I like to think he is taking it all in and learning something.
Cole claims to be a Republican – proudly chanting “Obama is a llama, he hates his momma” (apparently the Republican rallying cry at his school) – however, I am beginning to have doubts. While preaching the virtues of hard work, pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, taking responsibility for our actions and capitalism, Cole dutifully nods his agreement. He understands why we must stay in Iraq to fight terrorism, how trickle down economics works (kind of) and why we don’t like taxes.
However, he seems to have a great love for entitlements. As in “I am entitled to order pizza whenever I feel like it.” As in “I am entitled to stay up as late as I want to.” As in “I am entitled to bid on football cards on eBay.” As in “I am entitled to sit on this couch and boss you around.” (When he was four, sitting on the couch and making his demands, he said – in a moment of clarity – “Hey, you’re kind of like my butler.” Nice.) I am afraid I am creating my own little Democrat.
Cole claims to be a Republican – proudly chanting “Obama is a llama, he hates his momma” (apparently the Republican rallying cry at his school) – however, I am beginning to have doubts. While preaching the virtues of hard work, pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, taking responsibility for our actions and capitalism, Cole dutifully nods his agreement. He understands why we must stay in Iraq to fight terrorism, how trickle down economics works (kind of) and why we don’t like taxes.
However, he seems to have a great love for entitlements. As in “I am entitled to order pizza whenever I feel like it.” As in “I am entitled to stay up as late as I want to.” As in “I am entitled to bid on football cards on eBay.” As in “I am entitled to sit on this couch and boss you around.” (When he was four, sitting on the couch and making his demands, he said – in a moment of clarity – “Hey, you’re kind of like my butler.” Nice.) I am afraid I am creating my own little Democrat.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
HULA HOOP TRICKS
Red (my one-year-old Shi-tzu) and I went to our fourth “training session” at church this morning. We got into this thing because Cole heard them talking about the Paws to Care ministry at our church; we saw the tall and well-trained Olivia (one of those weird looking over-sized poodles) in the church lobby; and Cole thought it would be fun to take Red to visit people in nursing homes.
Swept up by Olivia’s soft fur, the nice lady at the sign-up table and the thought that my son might enjoy doing something other than organizing football cards or playing computer games, I signed up. We showed up for the first training class, and I began to get the whole picture. The training sessions are obedience training – not how to be nice when sweet old ladies in wheelchairs pet you.
So Red and I trek into the church every Saturday and dutifully practice heel; sit-stay; and sit down stay. Today we even learned how to walk through a hula hoop. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’m loving the fact that I am getting free obedience training, but I’m just not sure how my little dog knowing how to do a 60-second sit-down-stay or how to walk through a hula hoop is going to make us more qualified to walk around a nursing home.
The kicker is that we have to pass an “examination” to qualify for serving in this ministry after the eight weeks of training sessions. I kind of figured everyone would pass, but I talked to two women this morning whose dogs didn’t pass last spring. (Granted, one of them has a half Doberman/half lab and the other had a wild puppy) So now the pressure’s on. I think Red does just fine with his sit-stays but he seems only to be able to achieve the sit-down-stay when he’s so tired that he happens to lay down right when I give the command. If the walk-through-the-hula-hoop trick is a major part of the exam, then we’re golden.
The other thing about the class is the number of people who are trying to train their massive mastiffs and rottweilers to “share the love of Christ with those in the lonely stages of life.” Are you kidding me?? If these dogs walked in my nursing home, I’d grab my bingo card and walker and hide. If those dogs pass the exam, and my dog doesn’t, I plan to take it to the elders.
Swept up by Olivia’s soft fur, the nice lady at the sign-up table and the thought that my son might enjoy doing something other than organizing football cards or playing computer games, I signed up. We showed up for the first training class, and I began to get the whole picture. The training sessions are obedience training – not how to be nice when sweet old ladies in wheelchairs pet you.
So Red and I trek into the church every Saturday and dutifully practice heel; sit-stay; and sit down stay. Today we even learned how to walk through a hula hoop. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’m loving the fact that I am getting free obedience training, but I’m just not sure how my little dog knowing how to do a 60-second sit-down-stay or how to walk through a hula hoop is going to make us more qualified to walk around a nursing home.
The kicker is that we have to pass an “examination” to qualify for serving in this ministry after the eight weeks of training sessions. I kind of figured everyone would pass, but I talked to two women this morning whose dogs didn’t pass last spring. (Granted, one of them has a half Doberman/half lab and the other had a wild puppy) So now the pressure’s on. I think Red does just fine with his sit-stays but he seems only to be able to achieve the sit-down-stay when he’s so tired that he happens to lay down right when I give the command. If the walk-through-the-hula-hoop trick is a major part of the exam, then we’re golden.
The other thing about the class is the number of people who are trying to train their massive mastiffs and rottweilers to “share the love of Christ with those in the lonely stages of life.” Are you kidding me?? If these dogs walked in my nursing home, I’d grab my bingo card and walker and hide. If those dogs pass the exam, and my dog doesn’t, I plan to take it to the elders.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
"DIFFICULT AND HISTORIC ECONOMIC TIMES"
My son's private school newsletter, in a message from the headmaster to the dads, mentioned an upcoming "roundtable discussion on how we can lead our businesses and families through these difficult and historic economic times." I have a good friend who is another single mom at the school, and I'm thinking we need to crash the meeting. We both have our own (small) businesses and are definitely struggling to "lead our businesses and families through these difficult and historic times."
However, I am thinking the discussion will revolve around financial markets and investments, rather than how to save up enough money to pay the plumber to fix the toilet that has been broken for eight months because now the other toilet doesn't work so we are having a "difficult economic time." Or how to afford to fix the garage door that is letting in wildlife. Or how to save enough money to get the dead tree removed that you pray during every storm will not fall on your lovely new roof that you are still paying off.
I'm thinking that have a garage sale, quit spending so much at Ann Taylor Loft, give up your $18-a-week Diet Coke habit and consider renting out your spare bedroom will not be offered as suggestions at the meeting. Maybe I can solve my economic difficulties myself.
However, I am thinking the discussion will revolve around financial markets and investments, rather than how to save up enough money to pay the plumber to fix the toilet that has been broken for eight months because now the other toilet doesn't work so we are having a "difficult economic time." Or how to afford to fix the garage door that is letting in wildlife. Or how to save enough money to get the dead tree removed that you pray during every storm will not fall on your lovely new roof that you are still paying off.
I'm thinking that have a garage sale, quit spending so much at Ann Taylor Loft, give up your $18-a-week Diet Coke habit and consider renting out your spare bedroom will not be offered as suggestions at the meeting. Maybe I can solve my economic difficulties myself.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
THE EQUALIZER
Yesterday was one of those "equalizing" kind of days. Let me explain. I had a meeting Monday morning with a client (we'll call her "client #2") who another client ("client #1") had warned me about. Apparently, not a real nice or happy lady. So I go into the meeting ready to kill her with kindness and understanding.
Well, what do you know, but we begin discussing kids and she says I look way too young to have a nine year old. I dare to say "well I'm 40. " She says I really don't look 40. Apologies to any of my good friends who are reading this blog, but I now have a new BEST FRIEND. I have decided that I love her. I don't care how many rude things she says about client #1. I don't care that she sabatoges everything that client #1 tries to accomplish. I don't care that she never smiles.
To all those friends who say I should be a cougar (older woman who goes after a much younger man), HA! I don't look old enough to be a cougar. Besides, being a cougar implies that you have prey lurking about you that you could hunt. The only things that seem to lurk around me are piles of laundry and unpaid bills. Actually, I prefer to think that the prey is merely hibernating. Once he has made a small fortune, fine-tuned his household handiman skills, gotten his relationship with the Lord right, tried to solve world hunger and decided that 9-year-old little boys who love all things football are the coolest things ever, then he will come out of hibernation, and the hunt will begin!
OK. Back to the compliment. At this point in my life, I take any compliment from a non-family member for all it's worth. Last summer as I was leaving a 7-11, I hurried past a man with a stringy beard, dirty clothes and no legs sitting in a wheelchair who asked if I could spare a dollar. I smiled politely, said no I couldn't help and headed to my car. He called out "well, you're beautiful anyway." I promptly opened my car door, grabbed a dollar, hurried back to the man, gave him the dollar and said "thanks so much for calling me beautiful. It's been a really long time since a man said that to me." Pathetic?
Anyway, after my esteem-boosting morning, Cole and I were hanging out in the den, and I said "Hey, Cole, look at this." I lifted my shirt just a little to reveal the weird red rash growing around my belly button. (Gross. I know. And gross to show my kid, but frankly there's no one else in this house to show weird skin disorders, interesting editorials or garage paint colors to.)
Cole, looking at my belly: Wow, mom, you're fat.
Me: Well, thanks a lot Cole.
Cole: Actually I didn't mean it rude. Really it's like wow you don't look fat but you really are fat.
Me: Again, thanks.
Where's my new best friend when I need her?
Well, what do you know, but we begin discussing kids and she says I look way too young to have a nine year old. I dare to say "well I'm 40. " She says I really don't look 40. Apologies to any of my good friends who are reading this blog, but I now have a new BEST FRIEND. I have decided that I love her. I don't care how many rude things she says about client #1. I don't care that she sabatoges everything that client #1 tries to accomplish. I don't care that she never smiles.
To all those friends who say I should be a cougar (older woman who goes after a much younger man), HA! I don't look old enough to be a cougar. Besides, being a cougar implies that you have prey lurking about you that you could hunt. The only things that seem to lurk around me are piles of laundry and unpaid bills. Actually, I prefer to think that the prey is merely hibernating. Once he has made a small fortune, fine-tuned his household handiman skills, gotten his relationship with the Lord right, tried to solve world hunger and decided that 9-year-old little boys who love all things football are the coolest things ever, then he will come out of hibernation, and the hunt will begin!
OK. Back to the compliment. At this point in my life, I take any compliment from a non-family member for all it's worth. Last summer as I was leaving a 7-11, I hurried past a man with a stringy beard, dirty clothes and no legs sitting in a wheelchair who asked if I could spare a dollar. I smiled politely, said no I couldn't help and headed to my car. He called out "well, you're beautiful anyway." I promptly opened my car door, grabbed a dollar, hurried back to the man, gave him the dollar and said "thanks so much for calling me beautiful. It's been a really long time since a man said that to me." Pathetic?
Anyway, after my esteem-boosting morning, Cole and I were hanging out in the den, and I said "Hey, Cole, look at this." I lifted my shirt just a little to reveal the weird red rash growing around my belly button. (Gross. I know. And gross to show my kid, but frankly there's no one else in this house to show weird skin disorders, interesting editorials or garage paint colors to.)
Cole, looking at my belly: Wow, mom, you're fat.
Me: Well, thanks a lot Cole.
Cole: Actually I didn't mean it rude. Really it's like wow you don't look fat but you really are fat.
Me: Again, thanks.
Where's my new best friend when I need her?
Friday, October 17, 2008
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
So I'm trying to shut down the house for the night last night, and I open my house door into the garage. Right there at my feet is the biggest ARMADILLO I've ever seen! In my garage. Did I mention that I need a new garage door? It's all wompijawed (hanging at an angle, for those of you who aren't Southern) so that there is a one-foot opening on one end - through which the armadillo must have found his way.
Now, I have dealt with my share of animals that have found their way into my house. The mice that enjoyed running about the den. The raccoons who set up house in the attic. The roach that took a swim in my Diet Coke bottle. But never has my house attracted a big, gray armadillo.
After slamming the door and catching my breath, my mind shifted gears from "no way!" to "wait a minute, maybe we could use the armadillo for Cole's mammal project." I tried to wake up Cole, but he wouldn't move to come "observe" (as required to complete the project) the lovely mammal in our garage. At least one of the three mammals he is supposed to observe by Dec. 10 is supposed to be "in the wild" - so not a zoo animal or our puppy.
Wouldn't roaming about in my garage count as being natural or in the wild? Of course, how would we "describe the habitat"? Garage full of boxes of baby things that mom can't bear to throw out and boxes of toys that Cole can't bear to throw out and piles of newspapers that mom needs to throw out. Then there's also that bag of trash that the armadillo was enjoying...
Where's my roofer when I need him?
Now, I have dealt with my share of animals that have found their way into my house. The mice that enjoyed running about the den. The raccoons who set up house in the attic. The roach that took a swim in my Diet Coke bottle. But never has my house attracted a big, gray armadillo.
After slamming the door and catching my breath, my mind shifted gears from "no way!" to "wait a minute, maybe we could use the armadillo for Cole's mammal project." I tried to wake up Cole, but he wouldn't move to come "observe" (as required to complete the project) the lovely mammal in our garage. At least one of the three mammals he is supposed to observe by Dec. 10 is supposed to be "in the wild" - so not a zoo animal or our puppy.
Wouldn't roaming about in my garage count as being natural or in the wild? Of course, how would we "describe the habitat"? Garage full of boxes of baby things that mom can't bear to throw out and boxes of toys that Cole can't bear to throw out and piles of newspapers that mom needs to throw out. Then there's also that bag of trash that the armadillo was enjoying...
Where's my roofer when I need him?
ALMOND BUTTER OR WHITE ICE?
I have to get a new garage door. (I backed into it several years ago causing a series of unfortunate problems. Nice.) The repairman came by this morning, took a look and declared the current door hopeless. He showed me a brochure and some door colors and said "You can wait and talk it over with your husband."
I threw my shoulders back and with all the feminist pride I could muster, I said "There is no husband. I will be making this decision myself." Making car-related, house-related, things-I-don't-know-much-about-related decisions can be hard as a single woman but also can be empowering.
I am a woman who picked out, negotiated the price and bought my last car; drags her own branches down to the curb and pays all the bills. I can most certainly order myself a new garage door. I can decide how many windows it will have and what the color should be. I have no one I have to ask; I'll make that door almond butter, deep brown or white ice -- whatever color I please. Ha. I do not need a man to take care of me!
(All right. Here's the truth. Here's how this whole I-need-to-get-my-garage-door-fixed thing started. Once the door really quit working, who did I call? A man. My roofer who takes care of his clients. My roofer who replaced not only my house roof last year but also the damaged roof on my little red shed. My roofer who let me pay out what I owe him in very small payments.
My roofer called the garage door company that he uses, arranged for the service man to come over, came over himself to inspect the garage, and told the garage company to bill HIM so that I could just add it to my tab and continue to make small payments. Truth is, it's nice to be taken care of.
And, who did I call about paying for this extra expense? One of my favorite men - my dad.)
I threw my shoulders back and with all the feminist pride I could muster, I said "There is no husband. I will be making this decision myself." Making car-related, house-related, things-I-don't-know-much-about-related decisions can be hard as a single woman but also can be empowering.
I am a woman who picked out, negotiated the price and bought my last car; drags her own branches down to the curb and pays all the bills. I can most certainly order myself a new garage door. I can decide how many windows it will have and what the color should be. I have no one I have to ask; I'll make that door almond butter, deep brown or white ice -- whatever color I please. Ha. I do not need a man to take care of me!
(All right. Here's the truth. Here's how this whole I-need-to-get-my-garage-door-fixed thing started. Once the door really quit working, who did I call? A man. My roofer who takes care of his clients. My roofer who replaced not only my house roof last year but also the damaged roof on my little red shed. My roofer who let me pay out what I owe him in very small payments.
My roofer called the garage door company that he uses, arranged for the service man to come over, came over himself to inspect the garage, and told the garage company to bill HIM so that I could just add it to my tab and continue to make small payments. Truth is, it's nice to be taken care of.
And, who did I call about paying for this extra expense? One of my favorite men - my dad.)
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
OH THANK HEAVEN
A single mom friend of mine called last night in a bit of a panic. Her oldest son had cut his finger, and she wasn't sure if she sould head to the Emergency Room -- with her two, tired younger sons in tow.
It's one of the bigger hassles of being a single mom: the late night emergency. I have great neighbors who on more than one occasion have met me in the middle of the street at midnight bearing Sprite and crackers for my sick child.
But sometimes it's not that easy. Last Christmas Eve was one of those "nothing's ever easy" nights. I put Cole to bed with what I declared was a slight toothache. By 10:30 p.m. he was still wide awake, wimpering in pain and apologizing for "messing up" our Christmas Eve. The guilt. He had been having toothaches for the previous few weeks which I had been basically ignoring. I am totally irresponsible when it comes to all things dental.
So I threw Cole in the car, and we joined the small but determined pack of people wandering from drug store to drug store on Christmas Eve in a desperate attempt to solve our very inconvenient emergencies. Let me tell you, we were a pitiful group, pressing our faces to the glass and rattling the locked doors in hopes that the guy sweeping the floor would show some mercy and let us in. No such luck. We found no mercy from him at the CVS or from the lady closing out the register at Walgreen's or the creepy looking guy at Walmart.
A bit crazed at this point, I threw sense (and caution - literally) to the wind, and pulled into a not-very-safe (i.e. gang members wandering the parking lot on Christmas Eve) 7-11. Lo and behold, 7-11 has a small section of dental paraphrenalia - including Orajel! Oh thank heaven for 7-11!
We raced home, slathered Orajel all over Cole's teeth and were asleep by midnight. Who knew that I'd find my own little Christmas miracle tucked between the beef jerky and semi-pornographic playing cards at 7-11?
It's one of the bigger hassles of being a single mom: the late night emergency. I have great neighbors who on more than one occasion have met me in the middle of the street at midnight bearing Sprite and crackers for my sick child.
But sometimes it's not that easy. Last Christmas Eve was one of those "nothing's ever easy" nights. I put Cole to bed with what I declared was a slight toothache. By 10:30 p.m. he was still wide awake, wimpering in pain and apologizing for "messing up" our Christmas Eve. The guilt. He had been having toothaches for the previous few weeks which I had been basically ignoring. I am totally irresponsible when it comes to all things dental.
So I threw Cole in the car, and we joined the small but determined pack of people wandering from drug store to drug store on Christmas Eve in a desperate attempt to solve our very inconvenient emergencies. Let me tell you, we were a pitiful group, pressing our faces to the glass and rattling the locked doors in hopes that the guy sweeping the floor would show some mercy and let us in. No such luck. We found no mercy from him at the CVS or from the lady closing out the register at Walgreen's or the creepy looking guy at Walmart.
A bit crazed at this point, I threw sense (and caution - literally) to the wind, and pulled into a not-very-safe (i.e. gang members wandering the parking lot on Christmas Eve) 7-11. Lo and behold, 7-11 has a small section of dental paraphrenalia - including Orajel! Oh thank heaven for 7-11!
We raced home, slathered Orajel all over Cole's teeth and were asleep by midnight. Who knew that I'd find my own little Christmas miracle tucked between the beef jerky and semi-pornographic playing cards at 7-11?
Saturday, October 11, 2008
STRANGER DANGER
Look at me. This is entry number two, and it's only been a few days since my first post. Maybe I will actually be able to keep this thing going. (If this is your first visit, read my first post below so you'll know a little of why the heck I'm doing this...)
I spent the evening with my friend Julie discussing decorating, fashion, the greatness that is a Burger House french fry, schoolwork angst, tackle football, etc. - a good mom evening. Cole and I pile in the car to head home, and he slumps down in the seat and begins moaning about his stomach. I'm telling him to hang on until we get home and am imagining the night ahead: much moaning and potentially an unpleasant night in the bathroom.
We pull up to the corner of Boedecker and Northwest Highway, and this guy in a big truck pulls up next to us. He's looking right at me, smiling and making hand motions. I smile and try to figure out what he's getting at. Are my lights on? Is my trunk open? Is my tire flat? Finally I realize he wants me to roll down the window. Oh good, now I can hear what car malfunction I have missed.
Well, lo and behold, he actually says "Hey, what are you doing tonight?" I laugh and say increduously, "WHAT???" Keep in mind that this is a normal-looking, age-appropriate cute guy.
"No really, what are you doing tonight?" he says again.
I start really laughing and say "Well, I'm actually taking my sick child home to put him to bed." (He couldn't see Cole because of the aforementioned slumping due to stomach distress.)
He said "Oh well..."
Meanwhile Cole has heard all of this and was like "what was that all about??" I quickly took the I'm-single-and-I-got-the-attention-of-a-cute-guy-on-the-street-corner stars out of my eyes, and we had a serious discussion about the perils of stranger danger.
I'd like to think that if Cole hadn't been in the car, and if my hair hadn't been in a clip, and if I hadn't had my baggy workout shorts on, and if I wasn't worried about getting my eight hours of sleep, and if I didn't care about that whole stranger danger thing, that I just might have said "I'm not doing anything. Where are we headed?"
Yeah. Right.
So, I'll spend the rest of the evening trying to act compassionate to my moaning child. But, with the one-year anniversary of my last date looming, I'll take what I can and go to bed with a smile.
I spent the evening with my friend Julie discussing decorating, fashion, the greatness that is a Burger House french fry, schoolwork angst, tackle football, etc. - a good mom evening. Cole and I pile in the car to head home, and he slumps down in the seat and begins moaning about his stomach. I'm telling him to hang on until we get home and am imagining the night ahead: much moaning and potentially an unpleasant night in the bathroom.
We pull up to the corner of Boedecker and Northwest Highway, and this guy in a big truck pulls up next to us. He's looking right at me, smiling and making hand motions. I smile and try to figure out what he's getting at. Are my lights on? Is my trunk open? Is my tire flat? Finally I realize he wants me to roll down the window. Oh good, now I can hear what car malfunction I have missed.
Well, lo and behold, he actually says "Hey, what are you doing tonight?" I laugh and say increduously, "WHAT???" Keep in mind that this is a normal-looking, age-appropriate cute guy.
"No really, what are you doing tonight?" he says again.
I start really laughing and say "Well, I'm actually taking my sick child home to put him to bed." (He couldn't see Cole because of the aforementioned slumping due to stomach distress.)
He said "Oh well..."
Meanwhile Cole has heard all of this and was like "what was that all about??" I quickly took the I'm-single-and-I-got-the-attention-of-a-cute-guy-on-the-street-corner stars out of my eyes, and we had a serious discussion about the perils of stranger danger.
I'd like to think that if Cole hadn't been in the car, and if my hair hadn't been in a clip, and if I hadn't had my baggy workout shorts on, and if I wasn't worried about getting my eight hours of sleep, and if I didn't care about that whole stranger danger thing, that I just might have said "I'm not doing anything. Where are we headed?"
Yeah. Right.
So, I'll spend the rest of the evening trying to act compassionate to my moaning child. But, with the one-year anniversary of my last date looming, I'll take what I can and go to bed with a smile.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
HERE WE GO...
I’m a writer, and it’s very in fashion for writers to have blogs so here I go. I’ve actually been a blogger wanna-be for awhile, creating entries every now and then for my non-existent blog and just saving them in Word for no one to read. So I’m taking the plunge.
Knowing that the key to any kind of success with a blog is to keep it regularly updated, I’m going to try to update this thing at least twice a week. That’s saying a lot for me, because I don’t do much in my life unless it is:
Knowing that the key to any kind of success with a blog is to keep it regularly updated, I’m going to try to update this thing at least twice a week. That’s saying a lot for me, because I don’t do much in my life unless it is:
- Billable
- Kid-related
- Weight-loss inducing or
- Highly entertaining for me
But, I do enjoy writing, and I do find things fairly amusing in my life sometimes, so I think I’ll enjoy this even if no one really reads it. While I do find my family and friends rather “amusing” at times, I’m going to try to avoid too many can-you-believe-them kind of entries for the sake of maintaining those relationships – which are necessary for my sanity!
I also will try not to make this all isn’t-Cole-cute-and-you’ll-never-believe-the-funny-thing-he-said. However, I probably will include some Cole stories though when they make me laugh until I cry or simply cry. Here’s one that falls into the latter category. The conversation in the playroom went like this:
Cole: Mom, if I die will you take me to the hospital and use those shock things?
Me: Absolutely.
Cole, after thinking for a moment: Actually mom, you’ll probably die before me.
Me: That’s probably true. So, if I die will you take me to the hospital and use those shock things?
Cole: Sure….oh but, I probably won’t be here. You’ll probably die alone. Maybe the neighbors will find you.
There it was. Said right out loud. Put right out into the universe. The nightmare of a single, dateless mom, that could actually come true. I will die alone, and only after the stench of my decomposing body wafts down the street will a neighbor happen to find me.
Certainly by then it will be too late for the shock things at the hospital.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
