This morning, in response to an online question, I looked at him and said "I plan on being with you for the rest of my life." To which he responded. "I plan on being with you for the rest of your life. Which is why I'm going to shoot you someday."
"Awww," say I, "you would miss me, if you shot me."
"No I wouldn't," he replies, "I'm a very good shot."
And, in a very bizarre way, conversations like this are why I love him.
***
My daughter just walked up to me, while I was working through a tricky scene in the next book.
"Shea-yah, Mammy."
"Share what, little girl?" Say I, not really paying attention.
"Shea-yah peints."
"Share paints?" The abstraction abruptly focuses. "Share PAINTS!?!"
"Yeawp. Shea-yah peints shfingers." She says, waving her tiny, paint covered fingers in my face.
"Oh, Charlotte."
"Ohhhhw Mammy. Fai-yul."
***
"Momma?"
"Yes, Elliot?"
"Would you please, please, PLEASE, please, please, please, please, please..." deep breath... "please, please PLEASE, puh-leeeeeeeze...."
"Please?"
"Yes."
"Please what?"
"Oh. Ummmm...."
Silence.
"Get me some milk?"
"Yes, Elliot."
****
A Morning in the Life of Jessica:
Sometime around sunrise Charlotte decides the day has begun. Now, she's a little passive aggressive (she gets that from her Daddy) so instead of just getting up she spends about half and hour flopping around, sometimes in her bed, but mostly on my face.
"Charlotte." This is the word I mean to say, but it probably comes out as something closer resembling a groan. "Get off me."
"MAMA!" The says, utterly delighted. "Where did you come from? I thought this was an extremely lumpy pillow I was attempting to squish completely flat with my soggy, diapered butt." Okay, she really only only says that first word, but she MEANS the rest of it.
"Charlotte, Mama is asleep. Go jump on Daddy."
My daughter lets out a delighted giggle, conveying without words how adorably cute she finds it that I would attempt this sort of distraction. Then she reaches out and gently strokes my face. "Mama."
"Mama is tired. Go give Daddy a big hug."
"No, Mama. Mama big hug."
"Okay, give Mama a big hug." What follows can probably best be described as a wrestling move. Anyone ever heard of a tombstone piledriver? This is what my daughter does to me, followed by squealing delightedly "Biiiiiiiig Hug!"
"Glahahahahaaghbrpah."
Tiny, demonic giggles fill our bedroom. They are not soft, in fact, one might go so far as to call them piercing, and yet Waxor sleeps on, undisturbed beside me. At times like these, an unreasoning rage begins to fill my heart.
"Waxor."
No response.
"Waxor."
He twitches. I know he's heard me. He's just playing possum.
I am going to kill him.
"Waxor."
"Mgph?"
"Get up."
"Unh."
No movement from the other side of the bed. Charlotte, meanwhile, has discovered that if she lies with her head on my belly button she can try to insert her very small, very sharply nailed toes directly up my nose. I probably don't need to mention that her aim is poor.
"Waxor, get up and take Charlotte downstairs."
"I am getting up." Ah! Words. We're making progress.
"Move faster."
"Geez, just give me a second to wake up."
I lie, quietly seething, as he stretches leisurely and observes with some amusement that our daughter is now trying to scrabble beneath my body, shrieking "No! No Daddy! Tummin vivf you, tummin vivf you!"
Waxor takes this as a signal. Charlotte clearly doesn't want to go anywhere with him. He lies down and closes his eyes.
"Death, Mikel. Angry, winged, death."
"Why do you always over react?"
What follows can best be described as an exercise is half-assed measures. Charlotte doesn't want to go downstairs, so she's not making any effort. Waxor doesn't really want to get up and take her, so he lies there and says things like "Come on Charlotte, let's go" without making any actual attempt to get her to move. And I keep trying to go back to sleep, all while still having a child planted on my head. From my position, face down in my pillow, I speak calmly and rationally.
"I hate you. I hate you so much. I would kill you in your sleep, but then I would still have to get up in the morning."
He laughs. At me. Because he thinks I'm joking.
I am not joking.
But it doesn't matter, because once he laughs he's ready to get out of bed.
"Come on, Charlotte, let's go down stairs." Scooping her up they head down to the living room, with Charlotte calling back over his shoulder;
"Be my mommiiiiiiiiiiiie!"
I sigh and stretch out. Time for a nap, in my gloriously empty bed. I shall wake refreshed, cheerful, and ready to face the day.
"Mommy! Mommy! I need you! MOMMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!!!!"
Oh good. Elliot's awake.
It doesn't take long before I give up and go downstairs. Coffee, I think. Coffee will make everything better. Coffee will make me feel less like some sort of lumbering behemoth of rage and more like a normal, everyday mother.
I casually brush aside the tiny voice in my brain that reminds me that, as far as I'm concerning, a normal, everyday mother is pretty much exactly the same thing as a lumbering behemoth of rage. At least until about 9 or 10 in the morning.
Anyway, on to coffee, and glory! Or at least good cheer. Or, at the very, very least, the self restraint to pretend like I have good cheer.
"Mommy! I wanna help you make coffee!"
"Me, tiuuuuuuu! Me tiiuuuuu! Hep makin da tofffeeeeee!"
"Alright, guys, hold on just a second. Let me get the water going."
"I wanna help! I wanna help!"
"Me tiuu! Me tiuuu!"
"I said okay! I just need to put the water on to boil, and then you can help."
"I WANNA HELP! I WANNA HELP!"
"ME TIUUUUUUU! ME HEPPIN DA TOFEEE!"
"SILENCE!"
Shocked faces greet me, not just from my children, but also from my spouse.
"Elliot, do you want to help me with the coffee?"
"Yes."
"Charlotte, do YOU want to help me with the coffee?"
"Yesfh."
"Then will you PLEASE both knock it off and let me boil the water, so you can help me with the coffee?"
"Yesfh."
"Thank you, Charlotte. Elliot?"
Something vaguely resembling the cry of a wounded basselope arises from my son.
"Elliot, what's the problem?"
"You scaaaaaarrrred meeeeeeee."
"How did I scare you?"
"When you were loud."
Let me be clear for a moment. This is a child who never speaks when a yell would do. Unless you really need to know what he said. Then he whispers.
I apologize to my terrified offspring. Mostly this involves giving him a hug.
"Me need a hug, tiu, Mama."
"And why do you need a hug, little girl?"
"You stearded me."
Oh great.
The water is finally on. Tiny fingers take turns pressing the button on the coffee grinder. Eventually my beans, which do no resemble grounds so much as pulverized dust, get loaded into the aeropress.
"Now da top."
"No, Charlotte, it's not time for the top yet."
"I wanna do the top! I wanna do the top!"
"Elliot, it's not time for the..."
"No! NO! My top, MY TOP! I DO DA TOP NOW!"
"HEY!"
Again, my children give me the look of bewilderment.
"No one is doing the top yet. It's not time."
"Uh, Mommy?"
"Yes, Elliot?"
"When it's time, can I do the top?"
"No! NO! MY TOP! MY TOP!"
Sigh.
"What do you guys want for breakfast?"
"Uh... Ice Cream."
"Well, you can't have ice cream."
"Me tiu. Me want da ife cream."
"You can't have ice cream, either, Charlotte. Ice cream is not a breakfast food."
"Can I have oatmeal?"
"Sure."
"Me tiu! Me have da oatmeal."
"Okay, oatmeal for everyone."
"I wanna help!"
"How about you go get a bowl?"
"And a spoon?"
"Indeed, a spoon would be helpful."
"Okay!"
"Me tiu! Me get a spune!"
I prepare the oatmeal. Meanwhile my coffee sits, abandoned but not forgotten, on the counter. Some times it's about making a choice between two evils, ya'know?
"Okay, guys, oatmeal is ready. Bring me your bowls."
"Uh, Mommy?"
"Yes, Elliot?"
"Did you put the cinnamon in?"
"Yup. Bring me your bowl."
"Uh, Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"Did you put the sugar in?"
"Yes, I put the sugar in. Now, bring me your bowl."
"Uh, Mommy?"
"Elliot, I put everything in. I promise. Now, do you want this oatmeal?"
"Yes."
"Then bring me your bowl."
Bowls are ladeled. Half and half is judiciously applied. Both children are seated, eating away, and finally, FINALLY, I am going to get my coffee. I stir in sugar and go to fetch my half and half. From the fridge I hear the dulcet tones of my son. There is oatmeal on his pants. He is shrieking like a someone is flaying him, because of a fleck of oatmeal on his person.
"CLEAN IT! CLEAN IT! I NEED TO BE CLEANED OFF!!!!!"
"Elliot," I say lovingly, rationally, not at all resentfully. "If you would sit closer to your bowl, rather than attempting to fling oatmeal across vast tracks of empty space and somehow have it magically land in your mouth, you would be less likely to drop it on your pants."
He looks a me a moment. Stunned by my logic.
"CLEAN IT!!!!!!!!"
****
I am so tired of the war on drugs. Drugs are an inanimate object. You can't WAR on them.
But War on Drugs sounds so much better than War on 22 Million Americans Who Want the Right to Decide For Themselves What to Put in Their Bodies.
Let's face it, this is an issue about personal choice that has gotten waaaaaaaay out of control. And I don't even get why. There's a drinking age because we fundamentally think that people under a certain age have a high likelihood of making bad personal choices, and we're trying to keep them from giving themselves alcohol poisoning before they're old enough to make the decision to destroy their liver in a rational, adult manner. Once they reach that magic age, however, they can drink all day as long as they've got the funds for it.
Why are drugs so different? Laws, at their basis, exist to provide structure and support for society at large. What is the real difference, for society at large, I mean, not the individual, between a person who has a drink every night and the person who smokes a joint every night? I honestly can't think of one.
Sometimes people bring up the addictive quality of drugs. After all, we regulate morphine to keep addictions down. But alcohol is addictive, it's just addictive to a much smaller percentage of the population. There are illegal drugs that are less addictive than alcohol. Why?
Drugs can certainly be dangerous. I know that. But so is sky diving. Which is why an experienced diver teaches you how and takes you on tandem jumps until you're ready to try it on your own. But we don't tell people that they can't jump out of a perfectly good plane, just cause it's not safe.
Because we're all about free will.
Right?
RIGHT?!
So, it's been a really long time since I sent one of these. I've been busy. I feel like I have a whole lot more to say, but in the interest of not dropping off the face of the planet completely, I shall just send this now.
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