Twirl

Katie writes, colors, paints, draws, brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and throws a ball with her left hand. But she drop-kicks a ball with her right foot.

She also uses a computer mouse with her right hand. And since she was old enough to have hair on her head, she's twirled the right side of her hair with her right hand.

Today Katie got a paper cut on her right hand while reading a library book about our solar system. Tonight at bedtime, lying under the stars, moon, and planets Will pasted to her ceiling, she called out, "Mother, I twirl my hair with dis hand (holds up her right hand) not dis hand (holds up her left hand)!" She grabbed a handful of hair with her left hand and impatiently jabbed at her head as if she were trying to twirl her hair with absolutely no control over her left hand.

I wanted to laugh at her exaggerated fake incompetence, but I knew hair twirling is her thing. Like sucking my thumb was my thing. Like sleeping with a lovey is some children's thing. So I sat at the edge of her bed and asked, "What can you do to comfort yourself if you can't twirl with your right hand?" She stuck her thumb in her mouth, something she's picked up lately from her kindergarten boyfriend Aiden. A couple days after she announced they were boyfriend and girlfriend, Katie asked me why Aiden sucks his thumb.

"Probably to comfort himself when he feels scared or tired or unsure, like you do when you twirl your hair."

So tonight she tried to suck her thumb, but it lasted about ten seconds before she pulled it out and smiled. She was never big on binkies as a baby either. Just hair twirling.

"Why are you smiling?" I asked.

"You're cute when you care." Katie pulled my face to her and planted a big kiss on my lips.

"I'm cute when I care?" I asked, wondering where she heard something like that.

"Yes!" She laughed. "You're cute when you care about me, Mama."

It seems like such an oddly condescending thing for a five year old to say to her forty year old mother, but I'll take it. It's cute she thinks I'm cute when I care.

I left her room, then peeked on her about two minutes later. Sound asleep. Hair untwirled.

Peacock Daddies are Hot

Will is so proud of his little girl. That is so fucking hot. I have no idea why some people think thugs are hot. No way. Good daddies are hot. A strong man who wants to protect his daughter and give her a moral foundation upon which she can mature and create a life of wonder - that is hot. Not yo bitches and hos' bullshit.

Will and I had our first parent-teacher conference this morning. Will was beaming so much as we left the building I was surprised to find he hadn't sprouted peacock feathers on his back. He sure did attract this peahen. Proud peacock daddies are HOT!

Katie's doing well above average in reading and math, according to her kindergarten teacher. She's cooperative, on task, follows directions and participates in group activities. Big smile from both of us.

Her teacher suggested Katie could work on being more assertive. "It could help her gain confidence down the road."

Don't I know it. My teachers, my bosses. It's the first criticism I get from anyone in authority. I'm not assertive enough. They don't read my blog. They assume because I don't confront people verbally with my thoughts and feelings it means I lack confidence. No, it means I need time to think things through. I am the Queen of the Soulda Saids.

Katie's teacher explained that once she walked by and Katie wasn't doing her work. She wasn't goofing off or spacing off. She just sat quietly and looked at her paper. Her teacher asked why. Katie said, "I don't have a pencil."

Most kids would blurt out "Hey I NEED A PENCIL" or go steal one from someone, but Katie just sat there quietly, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

Her teacher said it's no big deal, just something we can be aware of to help her break out of her shell. I'm not worried. She's quite assertive with her mother and other kids at the playground, so I know Katie's got it in her. I think she's still just adjusting to being in a classroom setting, figuring out how to ask for help when there are 20 other much more noisy, assertive children around fighting for the teacher's attention.

When we got out of the conference, Will said to Katie, "One way you can ask for help if you feel shy and don't want to talk is to just raise your hand."

Later in the kitchen, Katie took her daddy's advice to get something she wants. "If you think Halloween is fun, raise your hand!" We both raised our hands.

Then she said, "If you want a piece of candy, raise your hand!" We both raised our hands, duh.

Brilliant display of advice, Peacock Daddy.

Suburban School "Safe" Trick or Treat from Hell

Last night the local high school hosted a "safe" trick or treat night for Katie's school, grades kindergarten through third. Will had to work tonight. I'm honestly glad because it was so freaking crowded at that place Katie and I kept getting our hands pulled apart through the waves of people, just the two of us. I can imagine if there were three of us the other two would spend most of the party trying to find the third person.

I've never been somewhere more crowded. New York City subways have nothing on the crowd at this Midwestern suburban high school. Parents hunched over from a long day, hauling their kids around in the most gaud awful tacky costumes, everyone's face red and hair plastered to their sweaty heads.

Everything went wrong that could. Katie stopped in the middle of the crowd several times and screamed, "I feeling too crowded!" We had to WAIT and WAIT and WAIT to participate in the games and activities. I swear we waited twenty minutes for Katie to spend two minutes smearing some orange frosting on a sugar cookie and then being swatted off so the next child could have her seat.

Someone stepped right in front of me as I was taking a picture of Katie impressively swinging a plastic bat at a ball into the "home run" section of the net. We were both pushed and shoved and got separated three times by the mass of bodies, and all I could hear was Katie screaming, "Mama! Mama! Where you go?!" I'd push my way toward her voice and we'd embrace. Then she'd look at me like I killed a kitten in front of her and yell, "Mama, you have to STAY CLOSE TO ME!"

After an hour, Katie was shooting mini hoops for candy and missed both shots. She lost it. She started crying, tripped and spilled all the candy out of her bucket. She sat sobbing on the floor, her gown growing grey film at the bottom of it from all the grime. Tears streaming down her face, Katie sat and watched while two other parents helped me picked up the candy. I thanked them profusely, and they both smiled at me genuinely like, "Been there before, Mom. Don't worry!"

I tugged her arm and said, "Katie, it's time to go home."

Katie, still crying, whined, "I don't wanna go home!"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Katie! You're obviously not having fun."

Tears still streaming down her face, she shouted, "I AM TOO HAVING FUN!!!"

We wove our way around people and finally found the exit. We stepped into a nearly empty hallway. I didn't realize until then how sweaty I was. The cool air from an open door out into the circle drive felt wonderful on my burning rosacea face. I dropped the stuff I'd been carrying onto a table to get out my keys. My arm throbbed as I tried to unbend it from the position it had been in for the last hour, holding my coat, Katie's coat, cookie, ghost balloon, and the T-shirt she won from the girl's volleyball team.

Which was very cool. Even though we were being jostled around, I couldn't stop smiling, watching all these older kids putting on this tremendous party for these little kids. The various games and activity tables were set up and staffed by high school kids in various groups like STUCO, cheerleaders, girls' basketball, boys' baseball and other student organizations. I was off drinking Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill at 7:00 on a Thursday night when I was in high school. I was definitely not at school when school was not in session. Often not even when it was. So it makes me happy that these kids today are not all "ugh, kids today" as adults often complain.

I found my keys. I told myself everything would be fine. Katie would pass out on the drive home and I'd carry her to bed. I'd take a valium.

I looked down at Katie, expecting to see the same scowl she had nearly the entire hour in the other room. Instead, I saw an adorable girl wearing the flower girl gown she wore at my niece's wedding earlier this year. Here was Glinda the Good Witch, digging through her plastic pumpkin, assessing the value of her loot. "Candy! Gum! Oooh and tattoos!"

She looked up at me. Her features had returned to normal, her eyes twinkling. "That was a blast!"

At first I laughed. Then I realized she meant it, in that completely unironic way only a five year old is capable of.

Emotions are so flexible at her age. Moody? Yes. But not always bad moods. Kids are quicker to spring back into a good mood it seems than adults are. Just when you start to think the only rational explanation for your child's behavior is that she has suddenly become possessed by the devil, snap! Your sweet child has returned to you, smiling and ready for some sugar.

It took me several hours and one valium to unwind after this so-called "safe" trick or treat party from hell. But Katie was instantly ready to forget the bad stuff and focus on the good stuff. Like how the moment your baby is placed into your arms you immediately forget all the pain you had felt moments ago. She held her pumpkin full of candy with the same kind of awe.

Katie skipped to the car as I hauled my exhausted body as fast as I could behind her. She'd periodically stop, turn around and shout, "Come on Mom! Let's go home and eat some CANDY!"

Oh how I wish candy still did the trick for me like it did when I was five.

Thank You, Pat

I sat here a minute ago and realized I'm happy. I'm not above fleeting moments of emotional negativity, but those feelings no longer consume me. The bed is no longer the only thing holding me up. I wake up excited for the day. Who knew that was possible?

Katie knows it. This morning I turned to find her nestled between Will and me in our king sized bed. My movement must have woken her. She opened her eyes and smiled. After a few silent seconds she startled me with such a wide-awake voice, saying, "Is it morning yet?"

She shot up in bed when I told her it was. "Yay, it's morning! Good morning, Sun! Good morning Sawyer! You can give me as many good morning kisses you want."

Will turned and smiled at us. His warm, deep voice still groggy, he said, "Good morning" with just enough force you knew it wasn't an option. He had dressed up as Mario for Katie's classroom Halloween party yesterday. He even shaved his full beard, leaving a long, thick mustache no fake mustache that comes with the costume could match. We entered the classroom and twenty little five year old faces beamed at him and several voices could be heard shouting, "Mario! It's Mario!" It's stuff like that Will does that makes me fall further in love with him each day. Further.

Nearly a year ago I couldn't get out of bed. Even with these two adorable, wonderfully amazing people lying next to me, egging me on. When you're sucked into that overwhelming vat of emptiness, all you're capable of feeling is guilty that you can't fake happiness for your family. You want them to know your sadness has nothing to do with them. It's like having a cold. Being under the weather. No matter who you have loving you, reminding you how wonderful life is, wanting you to enjoy it with them, you can't. Not that deep down you don't want to. You simply can't until you get over your illness.

It takes time. Just like getting over anything.

My brother died of liver failure in January. He was 49. Alcohol was his coping method of choice against this harsh life. It helped him get through the night alright, and it also sped up the ending of his life. His fiancee had died a month prior to his diagnosis. He missed her. He grieved and drank heavily and knew what he was doing. When he started swelling up like his fiancee had before she died, my brother confessed he wanted to be with her. He was tired of this life. He didn't have time to get over the grief of losing her to make a sober decision to stop drinking and have a liver transplant.

I don't know what happens to us after we die. I hope we don't just turn into dirt. But even if we do, at least we'll still be part of the cycle of life, keeping the plants and detritivores alive. So that's not so bad.

I hope there's a little more though. I don't expect harps, although that would be lovely. I don't expect everyone to wear white robes, because, you know, some people like purple. My brother would want a purple robe. I don't expect to finally know all the answers to life's big mysteries. If I didn't have the big questions to ponder, what would I do with my time? I guess I could learn how to play the harp.

But I do hope I get to mingle with my loved ones after I die. I'd like to see my brother and his fiancee dancing in the clouds to their song. Just as I'd like to see my grandpa. I'd pick him out of a crowd of angels by the smell of his cigarette. I'd hug him and point out that he still had holes in his shirt where the ashes would fall from his cigarettes.

I don't know if I'll get to encounter my grandfather, my brother, or anyone else in the afterlife. I hope so. Regardless, my time on this earth feels more fragile now, and therefore more valuable. In that way, my brother's death was a rebirth for me. He gave up on this life and it made me appreciate this imperfectly wondrous world. He died and it made me want to live more. I feel blessed and ready to get out of bed.

It's taken nearly a year of grieving my brother's death for me to feel back to my regular state of mental health. I wish my brother had that kind of time to grieve. Survivor's guilt won't slow down this spinning globe or make time stop until I'm ready to spin with it, so I'll just say to my brother, "Thank you, Pat" and leave it at that.

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Simple

"So it's sort of stored sun that's coming out when you burn a log." - Richard Feynman

I just finished reading the graphic biography Feynman by Jim Ottaviani and Leland Myrick. Will recommended it to me. I didn't think I'd like it, it'd be too science-y and boring. No way. Instead I felt energized reading it. It left me wanting more, excited at my discovery that, after this past year's extreme navel-gazing brought on by my brother's death, my turning 40, and my daughter starting school, I'm still curious about the world. Outside myself. I'm ready to pay attention and ask questions, without necessarily needing answers.

Will's got me geeking out with him in his man cave, watching online video interviews of this brilliant man. It's astounding how Feynman knows something so thoroughly he can break it down into simple terms that even I can comprehend. Like how Kurt Vonnegut uses simple words to communicate his complex ideas in Slaughter-house Five. Break anything down to its most fundamental form to find meaning in it.

I Love You Every Day, Will

Saturday was our seven year anniversary. Katie slept over at her cousins' house, so it was date night for Will and me. Stop right there. You can get the bow chica wow wow out of your head. I know you're thinking it, and I'm certainly not judging you. Under normal circumstances, it's perfectly reasonable to assume a wedding anniversary is celebrated by a couple exploring each other's bodies in an orgasmic state of harmony. But it wasn't like that. I passed out. Again. Just like our wedding night. If our marriage were a TV show it would be a sitcom. Something always foils our plans. Even when we do things the way I like and have no plans. Our TV show might not win awards for romance or drama, but it'd be good for a laugh.

Will and I had an unconventional wedding, so it makes sense that our anniversaries also defy custom. Part of the problem is I'm no good at special occasions. I love Will every day. More and more each day. So I don't quite get why I have to buy him a present or give him a card one day of the year so he knows how much I love him. I prefer to not make such a big deal about it and show him I love him every day.

But I married a romantic. So I go along. I celebrate. I try my best. But somehow I always jack shit up.

I usually buy him the wrong kind of chocolates. Will is very particular about what kind of chocolates he deems worthy enough to help celebrate such a special occasion. I saved a picture of them on my computer so I'll quit getting him the wrong kind and then yelling at him for being so picky and then feeling guilty when he says stuff like, "I'm picky enough to have picked you." It only took me five anniversaries to figure out I need photographic documentation to get it right.

Last year we spent lots of money on a cool eco-friendly hotel room with a private hot tub. I don't know how a hot tub can be eco-friendly. I hope it has nothing to do with recycling the water used by other guests.

The year before that I learned that the word "Jacuzzi" does not imply hot tub with massaging jets. Apparently "Jacuzzi" is a brand name. A brand name for a company that manufactures all kinds of bath tubs. Even the kind without massaging jets. So when you call a fancy schmancy hotel in a cool college town within driving distance of your suburban home, remember to ask not, "Does the room have a private jacuzzi?" Instead, be clear. "Does the room have a private hot tub with massaging jets?" Then you won't spend the first hour of your stay talking to the manager about how they can make your experience better when the one thing you thought you asked for isn't in the overpriced room.

But this anniversary I had no one to blame but myself. I can't believe a joker like me is trusted to manage anyone. I'd offer myself a bottle of champagne like the manager of the fancy schmancy hotel did when he screwed up, but that would just make my situation worse.

It started at a fabulous locally-owned, cozy Italian restaurant. I had two glasses of the house red wine with my chicken spiedini. On the way home after our romantic dinner, we stopped by the liquor store up the street from our house. I bought a bottle of French wine because it was fairly inexpensive and had a rating of 90 from some so-called afficionado. Or no, that's what you call people who smoke cigars. Wine connoisseur I believe is what I'm going for. "Enthusiast" would work too. I have no idea what kind of wine is good. The liquor store owner's teenager could be assigning scores to the wine and I would know no difference.

When we got home we played drunken chess. Yes, I said chess, not chest. Will was feeling old school, so he drank Schlitz beer in the Schlitz glasses his dad had found in his grandma's basement.

So there we were, an old married couple, drinking Schlitz and cheap wine, playing chess. That's what I remember.

I woke up with a headache. I was lying next to Will in bed, naked. I couldn't remember how I got there. I tried to trace back my memory of our anniversary night, but the fog would not lift from my brain past our chess match. I remembered winning, kind of, only because Will pointed out the move I was about to make would put my king in danger. I remember feeling really good. Not that I won, but that my husband chivalrously prevented me from losing. It made me feel good thinking about it in bed too, listening to Will softly snore. But I felt a little uneasy not remembering how I got there.

I put my arm around Will and kissed his cheek. I didn't know if it was a good morning kiss or a makeup kiss. He smiled. I sighed. Then we laughed together as Will poked fun at me. He told me the truth of what happened after our chess game. I got frisky, we made it to bed, I passed out, literally on top of him.

"Did I head butt you?" I covered my eyes, peeking through my ring finger and tall man to see Will's reaction.

"No, your head went - splat!" Will patted his right shoulder.

I cringed. "I passed out, just like our wedding night?!"

"Yep. You know you're going to have to blog about this?" Will teased.

"No, no! I'm too embarrassed." My hands still covered my face.

"You better share this story with the world before I get a chance to. I'll make shit up..."

"Oh, I'm such a horrible wife!" I half laughed and half cried.

Will rolled over and kissed me, looked me in the eye, and said, "No. We're perfect for each other."

Thankfully he's right once again.

So here it is, world. I love my husband even though on special occasions I'm a bad lay.

Will got up and went to work. Before leaving to pick up Katie, I looked in the mirror and realized I wasn't as hungover as I thought I was. My glasses sat crooked on my face. So no, not everything in the world was as tilted as it seemed, but it's definitely time for a new pair of glasses.

As I stared at my face, I remembered waking up at some point the night before because something was poking me. My glasses and I have been together longer than Will and I have, and I think they're finally sick of me falling asleep on them. I better cut back on the wine before Will gets sick of it too.

There Are No Beginnings There Are No Endings, Just a Cycle of Life in Many Forms

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"The Man Cave's Not-Too-Upsetting Guide to Down-There Parts" --The Rachel Maddow Show

Oh, how I love it when gay people set the record straight about how heterosexual sex works. Dan Savage, one of my favorite bigass homos, educates straight people too.

Rachel Maddow is my favorite bigass homo political science teacher. She can take complex political ideas and simplify them so even a lazy learner like me can understand them. She does the same thing here with her simply hilarious sex ed segment in response to Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney's obvious ignorance as to how a woman gets pregnant. He has, what, five kids? Proof that anyone can have a kid, even if they don't know how it happened. Might as well blame it on the stork.

I don't believe life starts at conception. And I certainly don't believe ignorant politicians should prevent people from using hormonal forms of birth control, The Pill, an IUD, that ring thing. You know, the form of birth control MOST young women in the United States use so they don't have an unwanted pregnancy which turns into an unwanted child which turns into an uncared for person. Or a person who the rest of us then give part of our income to in the form of taxes that pay for that oops of a person's housing, food, education and healthcare expenses.

Not that only poor people have unwanted pregnancies. Lots of people who can support themselves can also financially support their unplanned children. They just screw with their kids psychologically, but that's ok because it keeps the shrinks, the spiritual advisors, and the pharmaceutical industry in business.

The reason I don't believe life begins at conception is not because I'm a fan of abortions. Ending a pregnancy is a horrifying thing. The government has no right interfering in the private decision-making process of a person considering such a morally ambiguous choice. But that's not my complaint about any kind of "life begins at conception" bill.

I don't believe that life begins at conception because I believe life never ends. I think of life as energy, something which can never be created nor destroyed. It doesn't end. It transforms. People die. Animals die. Plants die. Cells die. But life doesn't end because of their death. It's just transformed into something else, a decomposed body, soil, energy for other living things.

No one KNOWS when life begins. Most of us have our BELIEFS about when life begins. Even scientists and spiritual guides are ignorant about it. They think, they believe, but they do not know. Scientists can figure out how an ovum and a sperm combine and multiply into a clump of cells that either get imbedded into a uterine wall or not. Spiritual guides tell us when they believe life begins. But no one, including me, can say for sure.

In my case, being subfertile, I most likely have conceived lots of clumps of cells but they have failed to attach to my womb. Doctors say my hormones are out of whack. Spiritual guides say I don't pray enough. But either way, although I feel sad that I can't seem to have another baby, I don't feel guilty that my uterus isn't a good hostess to Will's and my clump of cells. I don't feel like I'm preventing a life from beginning. I'm just preventing a life from transforming. It will go on without me.

That clump of cells is life, whether or not it implants in my uterus or gets flushed down the toilet at the end of the month. It's disappointing to think about the lost chance of spending time with that clump of celluar life that doesn't stick around, but I don't feel like a death occured. Life just changed form. A clump of cells got flushed down the toilet where it most likely got digested by some detritivores who then transformed it into something else, water, gas, dirt, fish food whatever. And we eat the fish and poop it out and it starts all over again.

My point is not to show you how if you think about it we eat our own children. I'm interested in, and comforted by, the cycle of life. A leaf falls from a tree. Detritivores digest it and transform it into soil which then the tree absorbs energy from to produce another leaf which will eventually fall to the ground on and on and on. It's really beautiful, life. In all forms.

Anyone who says they know when life begins is just not thinking things through. Mitt Romney, I'm looking at you.

Jokes Not Bombs

Katie has learned the fine art of using humor to defuse an argument. A couple of weeks ago, a boy in her class named Nicholas was teasing her, saying she was wearing a pajama top. Most of her clothes are hand-me-downs, so for all I know it actually is a pajama top. I'm pretty oblivious to fashion. It has a kitty on it and it's purple so it fits the strict criteria Katie has suddenly imposed upon her wardrobe since she began spending five days a week with other children. It's as if she has been slapped in the face with societal expectations using a fancy white glove girls were once expected to wear to church. I tell her all the time, "Wear what you want." And what she wants right now is to fit in with the other girls in her school. Understandable.

I also understand how Katie felt when someone implied she doesn't know the difference between night clothes and school clothes. Katie was annoyed. So much so, she told me about the pajama comment first thing as we were walking home from school. I asked her what she did when he teased her. She said, "I told him this is NOT a pajama top and walked away." Oh thank you Jesus, she turned the other cheek.

Then Tuesday Katie got to wear pajamas to school for Red Ribbon Week. When the half-day kids were dismissed, she hugged me and said, "Guess what? I walked up to Nicholas and said, 'Hey, I AM wearing pajamas today!' and he laughed. Nicholas is my friend now."

World leaders, pay attention to your five year olds. They might be wiser than you.

My Ride with the Devil

When "Ride with the Devil" was released, I didn't read any reviews of it. I had read about it while it was being filmed. I had a big crush on Tobey Maguire, ok? So I went to it without any warning from the critics. My opinion of the film would be entirely my own.

After seeing it the first time, I became obsessed. I saw it in the movie theater seven times, six by myself because I wanted to remain undisturbed during the entire film.

So imagine my shock when tonight, over ten years later, I read its box office results while researching where it was filmed (Pattonsburg, Missouri) and discovered it's considered a flop. It was like $35 million to make, but it only earned like $650,000 or something like that. And many critics said as a character study/action film it didn't quite fit together.

Really? Is this another "Walking and Talking"? I have unfriended people for disliking the movie "Walking and Talking".



I once recommended it to a friend at work, and when she reported to me the next day that she thought it was "awful" I never felt the same way about her again. It would be like finding out after a year that your boyfriend is a Republican.

My brother Pat, God love him, once replied, "Yeah, she could warn everyone what movies NOT to see with her raving reviews" when my mom said to me, "You should write movie reviews." I had just come home from yet another failed corporate job, before I started working at the library.

But then I found this review of the film, and I can see why yes of course I love it. "Like all of Lee's films, Ride with the Devil, an ambitious Civil War epic featuring career-best performances by Tobey Maguire and Jeffrey Wright, appeals more to the ears than the eyes and is more literate than cinematic." Words words words. I love 'em.

Here's my favorite quote:

Jake Roedel: "What kind of liberty is it that takes away the liberty of others?"

Amen.



But yeah. If you want to remain my friend, please do not take the liberty of telling me you think "Ride with the Devil" or "Walking and Talking" suck.

Accidental Protest

I do not understand the point of Red Ribbon Week at Katie's school. Other than as fodder for ridicule and confusion.

Yesterday Katie was unable to "Be a Team Player" by not wearing her "favorite team shirt/jersey". Last week a note was sent home reminding us that this week is Red Ribbon Week. It's today's attempt at an anti-drug campaign. They fried eggs on TV to show us the dangers of drugs when I was a kid.



Even though they sent home the reminder, first thing Monday morning it never crossed our minds to dress our daughter in a sporty shirt so she could "Be a Team player – Stay Drug Free." So, she went to school wearing her Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. Total accident, but I love the irony. I just wish I had seen the faces of the teachers and administrators as my cute ponytailed girl waltzed down the hallway wearing a shirt that celebrates the life of a genius musician who by all accounts was decisively pro-drugs.

Today, kids were encouraged to wear pajamas to "Say Goodnight to Drugs." What does that mean? It sounds like a slogan for some sleeping aid. But Katie was so excited to wear her Halloween nightie to school. My skepticism crumbled before her cute enthusiasm. She insisted even the teachers were going to wear pajamas today. I asked her why.

"So they can say goodnight to, uh, um, uh, those bad things."

"Drugs?" I helped her out.

"Yeah, so they can say goodnight to drugs!"

It took all my might to keep my eyeballs from rolling into the back of my head. I swallowed my Allegra and Sertraline with a swig of strong coffee and bit my tongue.

So guess who showed up today for her reading helper volunteer job at Katie's school wearing her robe and slippers while no other grownups appeared to be wearing pajamas? Yep. I am officially The Dudette.



What could I do? I just smiled, held my sweet girl's hand, and escorted her into the building. In my fuzzy robe. In front of the huge line of cars filled with parents dressed for work, dropping their kids off. Probably thinking I dropped something first thing this morning.