It Goes to Show

You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle
And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell

Last night I stood in the kitchen and did The Twist while I made cocoa for J (because he asked and I wanted to.) I recommend The Twist when your lower back is achy. While the microwave counted down, I thought about a couple things:

Like how happy J is that I am in charge of gestation. I get the thanks for this daring-do often. I have to say, I’m happy to do it. Mostly because I’m a control freak, if I want things done right, well, I’d rather do them myself—and that includes growing a child. There’s no way that J would eat a plate full of brussels sprouts, that’s for sure. Is forced Brussels sprouts consumption regulated under the Geneva Convention? If I wanted a child raised on a diet of sandwiches and cola, J would be my absolute first choice.

They furnished off an apartment with a two room Roebuck sale
The coolerator was crammed with TV dinners and ginger ale,

As we were driving to my parents in the late afternoon I saw something go running onto University from the country club. I thought, “That’s a really big dog—a really fast big dog.” It was a small doe, probably two years old. You get used to the deer coming down off the mountain around this time of year, but it’s rare to see them near such busy roads. I let off the gas and watched as the white Astrovan in front of us hit the deer. The small doe went airborne, her four hoofs extended like a ballet dancer’s arc, twisting and circling through the air across two lanes of traffic, landing on the grassy embankment. My heart sank. The Astrovan never stopped. El Guille from the back seat said, “Look, a birdie. Birdie fell down. Birdie hurt head.” He repeated this observation throughout the night. There’s no way he could understand what happened, or the way of all life, or all that philosophical mumbo jumbo, but I think he knew that a creature had been in pain.

They had a hi-fi phono, boy, did they let it blast
Seven hundred little records, all rock, rhythm and jazz

I delivered the cocoa and a kiss to where J was working on a paper for class today. I complained that the never-used microwave popcorn I had intended on popping was rancid—I could just smell it when I opened up the plastic. He rubbed my belly as I went on to complain that I was also out of Pero and would now have to chance it with cocoa. So close to bedtime—did I dare? I am one of those sad people that can’t have a coke past 7pm, or chocolate past 9pm, otherwise I am too wired for sleep. During this conversation J said about 8 words and I said about 600.
J egged me on and I, against all previous self-admonishment, drank a small cup.

At 2:30am I sat in bed, wide awake, cursing my sensitivity to trace amounts of caffeine. Here’s what I do not recommend doing at 2am: watching SVU, thinking that the slight movement you feel on your hand is a ghost. Here’s what I do recommend: extra pillows and floss, a goodnight kiss, thinking happy thoughts that do not involve the super-natural.

They bought a souped-up jitney, 'twas a cherry red '53,
They drove it down to Orleans to celebrate the anniversary
It was there that Pierre was wedded to the lovely mademoiselle

Can you believe it’s been nine years? We were so young and stupid, flying through the air, not even understanding what hit us. I do feel some sort of twisted pride—nine years and 1.5 kids. We sure do take our sweet time. "C'est la vie", say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell.