My mom, folks!

"You're not going to believe what happened with my stove."

"WHAT HAPPENED."

"It's okay, don't panic."

"Don't scare me like that."

"Yesterday, I'm sitting in the dining room, drinking some tea, when the ignitor just turns on."

"What? For no reason? You were baking something?"

"No, that's what I'm saying. The oven was off, and suddenly the ignitor started clicking. First it was going click, click, click, then it went clickclickclickclick and suddenly there are flames and black smoke shooting out of the vent—"

"BLACK SMOKE?"

"Yes, so I ran to the outlet and unplugged it, and luckily it stopped right away."

"I don’t like this!"

"No kidding."

"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?"

"The repair guy's coming tomorrow, and until then, you know, we'll be using the microwave a lot."

"Alice, I hate to say this, but I think there's something wrong with that oven."

Pondering the imponderable.

You want to talk about death, again, but your mother's not into it.

Lately death is staring you in the face at every turn. You look down, and there's a deceased earthworm baking on the sidewalk. Look up, and WHAPPO, your cat just murdered a fly. You go for a drive with your mom, and there's another cemetery, on your left. That's where all the people go to die.

"Not to die," your mother says. "Those people were dead when they got there."

"What got them dead?" you want to know.

"They were very old and very sick," she says.

"How old? Grandma old?" You bite your lip.

"Nonononono. Older. Much, much older. Hey, look at that funny guy doing that, uh, thing!"

What funny guy? What thing? You can't see from the car seat. What were we talking about, again?

Die, death, dying, dead, you hear it all the time, it pops out of conversations, like your name. "You're killing me," your mom says to your dad. That's an expression. She won't die yet. On the television they're killing each other but then they bounce right back up. Your grandma's friend dies. You tell her, "I'm sorry your friend is dead. I hope she gets better." After a little rest, you think, she'll stand back up. So why do they bury people?

You keep asking your mom, but something happens and you don't get the answer, or at least not the right answer. You say "even when I die" a lot, testing it out. "I will always love you," you say to your best friend, "even when I die." Your friend gives you a funny look, or maybe that's just his face. After a day at the beach, you tell your mom that you will always love the ocean. "Even when I die," you add. Your mom mutters something.

"I want my grave to be in the ocean," you say. "I want to be buried on a surfboard."

"Wow," your mom says, "you really DO love the ocean."

"And maybe your grave can be in the ocean, too, and we can be buried facing each other so we're kissing, because I will always love you—"

"Oh boy," your mom says.

"—even when I die," you get out.

"Can we not talk about death right now?" your mom asks. "No one's dead, no one's dying, we're all here, let's talk about something else. Okay?"

"But someday," you say.

"Someday, but not now. Not for a long, long time."

So: not now. But someday. And what then?

At least it was invisible.

I am inexplicably delighted when my son expresses any displeasure with me. I think it's a combination of surprise that it doesn't overly bother me, and relief that he's (mostly) passed the stage where he just has a fit on the ground while I watch.

This morning I was in full-on nag mode; we were ten minutes late for camp, and I was all GET ON YOUR SHOES and YOU CAN BRING ONLY ONE TOY INTO THE CAR NOT TWELVE and HOLD YOUR LUNCH BAG LET'S GO COME ON C'MON C'MON. Finally, Henry walked out of the house. Just walked out, and stood on the porch, refusing to face me.

"If you don't hold your lunch bag, you're not getting lunch," I said. I am one tough broad. Also I had no free hands to hold the damn thing.

He slammed back into the house. "You're ann-oying me," he said. He glowered.

I tried not to kiss his flushed little pissed-off face. I can't help it! He's cute when he's angry! "I'm being pretty grumpy this morning," I said.

He nodded. "Worst. Mommy. Ever."

"Ever? Does that mean I win an award?"

He thought about this for a minute. "Your award is a bunch of garbage. But it's invisible." He looked me over. "You're holding it right now."

I couldn't help it, I cracked up. He did too. "Stupid mommy," he attempted, then he saw my face, and said, "Just kidding! Not stupid. Only worst."

-----

In other news, there is a new Wonderland post up today. Also, I will be away next week on yet another family vacation, this one with my delightful in-laws, who are much more accepting of my SPF 90,000 usage. Also, did you see my new masthead? The design is courtesy of Scott, who was tired of watching me attempt to use Photoshop, and the tagline is from Henry, who I think meant to say, "You're going to regret this," but I like his version better.

UPDATE: Apparently no one can see my masthead. Yes. Well. I will strive to figure out why.

UPDATE #2: Masthead now visible? Yes?

It takes him longer to catch up, before he's had his morning coffee.

"Charlie has no water in his water bowl."

"Dogs don't need water to live."

"No, they need beer, is that what you think, Scott? You would probably give him beer."

"…"

"Hey, you know what I think? I think we should make a special kind of dog beer. Think about it! Dog beer! So you'd never have to drink alone!"

"Why not just give them regular beer?"

"You'd want to make a special kind, with a lower alcohol content, so your dog would only be loveably tipsy."

"But what if your dog drank too much of it? He'd still get drunk."

"No, it would be a magical beer that keep him only mildly buzzed."

"How is that possible? How do you keep blood alcohol at one level like that?"

"I'm really glad you're arguing these points with me, because I AM COMPLETELY SERIOUS."

"Look, I'm just trying to help you, here. You're a better writer than you are a beer maker, all right? DO NOT MAKE DOG BEER."