Now that you’ve read some of my formative events, I’ll share just a few scenes from the lives of my children.
In our home, terms of endearment are creative. And pretty much any word can become one.
When our middle daughter was at that excellent stage where babies laugh at anything and find delight in the strangest things, she did something silly and I called her a little geek. Our son, who was four at the time, burst into tears.
“What’s the matter?”
“You didn’t call me a geek.” So I did, and then he was fine.
Several years later, when said cute baby had grown into a middle schooler, (I refuse to make any statements that could incriminate me about this particular stage in life) she went to a football game with a group of friends.
Drama often accompanies hormonal surges in adolescence. The football game outing sparked and flared with melodrama like the pictures of the surface of the sun.
Said daughter returned home, disgust dripping off her facial features. A few well-aimed questions opened up the happenings of the evening. Apparently, a classmate, juiced on caffeine, sugar and aforementioned hormones, bothered the gaggle of girls all night.
While they watched the game, talked, ate – he was there – tormenting and teasing.
“Mom I was so mad.” She explained in great detail and ended with these lines.
“He ripped off my hat, and pulled out my hair,
And made me spill my chips everywhere!”
This undid me. The sing-song delivery, the cadence, the beauty of the rhyme, the visuals -- I dissolved in laughter. She, not knowing what I was laughing at, stomped her foot. Oh, that settled me right down. Ha.
I laughed myself sick while she gathered the rest of the family who then looked on like helpless, untrained monkeys.
For days, weeks even, I tried to tell this amusing anecdote but couldn’t. Occasionally puffs of airborne words filtered out of the full blown ha, har, ha, hee’s. Never enough for someone to actually understand the story. I could get two to three words out, but then I’d melt into a puddle of glee. The family member who was assigned to accompany me in public would try to tell the story. I heard several versions. Ah, but mine is the best. Wish you could hear it.
Years later, the perfect Seussian delivery still brings a chuckle, and a bubble of hysterical laughter lies just below the surface.
I suppose I should seek professional help…… but how would I ever explain my symptoms?
2 comments:
Only a writer! It's okay, Kelly. I understand. Just start sending me checks, and I'll be your therapist. Will you change. Probably not, but at least you can tell your family that you "tried to get help!" LOL!
I hope you are going to finance the years of therapy your poor child will undoubtably need. Yup, writers are warped. You're not alone sister.
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