I am not and have never been good at saying good-bye. The best farewell, in my mind, is one not said. I would rather slip away in the night with no formal conclusion. So-long: so final; it leaves no room for error, for perhaps rendezvousing again.
I sought advice on how to do it, so I would improve, but only received convoluted counsel:
Normally, I walk through my house wearing plow-mule blinders. As I wrote in the introduction of If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny, I keep a well-organized house, with a place for everything . . . in the floor. I hired a housekeeper to save my marriage. On the days that the housekeeper comes, like today, I walk in the door from work, hang the blinders on the coat rack, and enjoy the view. I feel relaxed, calm, like I have time on my hands. So, naturally, I treat myself for her job well done. This afternoon I allowed myself thirty minutes on the sofa watching HGTV.
“What’s malpractice?” asked my 10 year-old at dinner tonight. After I explained it, he asked, “Can you sue your parents for malpractice?” “What!” I exclaimed, offended. Sure, I’m not perfect, but have the last ten years been that bad? Anyone can clearly see he hasn’t a physical ailment to his name, so I suppose he wants restitution on the grounds of mental anguish and irreversible trauma. Would he let the potty training grudge go, already?
Boys all get to that age, eventually, when their parents can’t touch them in public; especially their mothers. My 12 year-old son inches closer and closer to it everyday. Self-consciousness rises to his face like mercury in a thermometer when I get within two feet of him. Admittedly, the sadist that I am, torturing both him and myself, I enjoy the challenge of getting my arm around him within eyeshot of other people. Gripping his opposite shoulder with my hand, I count, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi . .
And for your patience, which far exceeds that of your parents, you win a . . .
At my house, children who have worn out the tolerance of their adult caretakers, specifically their father and me, get sent to sit on the stairs. Depending on the day, hour, and temperament of the child, sooner or later he starts yelling, “Can I come back now?” We shut down the plaintative cries with a resounding, chorused, irritated “No!”
I grew up in the CSRA, but I still have to ask directions once in a while. It never ceases to amaze me when, almost every time, the direction giver’s first words are, “Go to Pumpkin Center . . .”
Pumpkin Center is at the epicenter of the earth. All routes anchor there. If I can get to Pumpkin Center, I can get anywhere in the world. Think of all the possibilities! We live with an international crossroads in our backyard!
I feel so cosmopolitan.
I have a chivalrous husband. He runs my bath water. He pumps gas for me. He makes my coffee in the morning. He helps me with technical stuff, like the clock in my car.
“Is that the right time?” he asked me today, when he sat in my passenger seat.
“No, it’s fast,” I affirmed.
“I thought I fixed that for you,” he said, thumping the face of it.
“You did,” I reassured him. “But it keeps skipping ahead. It was only two minutes fast. Now it’s five or six minutes fast.”
Monday morning I woke up in a funk. And it only got funkier as the day wore on. I could feel Costa Rica wearing off, my tan fading, my sunny disposition turning grey. Vacation ended and life was caning me with the reality rod. I couldn’t shake it.
My husband, frustrated with my dour demeanor, said, “I guess that was a wasted trip.”
“That wasn’t a nice thing to say,” I replied. “What do you mean by that?”
Thank you to the members of the THIRD TUESDAY BOOK CLUB for a wonderful evening this past Tuesday. Such gracious hostesses, they immediately welcomed me in and put me at ease (Of course the glass of red wine helped, too). We enjoyed a divine evening of laughter and sharing stories, as I read from and we discussed my book, IF MAMA DON’T LAUGH, IT AIN’T FUNNY. I always find it interesting how every life has a different course, but the individuals maneuvering through the obstacles are so much the same.
Two weeks ago today, my family sat around the breakfast table discussing what we planned to lay down for Lent. Last year I gave up sleep. I set my clock 15 minutes earlier every morning so that I could spend time in prayerful meditation before starting my day; a taxing task for my circadian rhythm.
