Whenever he comes even close to skinning a knee — the surface of the skin isn’t even broken; maybe there’s just a wee abrasion — he calls out with a dramatic intensity on a par with graduates of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, “IS IT BLEEDING?!”
Don’t know when it will be that I stop keeping Band-Aids (the never-fail placebo) in my wallet. When that day comes, a major chapter of this parenthood will have come to a close. Of course there’ll be whole new ones to follow. Probably in which I turn around and apply the Band-Aid to myself. (“Is he even in this ZIP CODE?! This AREA CODE?! The frigging TIME ZONE!” Or, “Would it kill her to just text me back A SMILEY FACE EMOTICON SO I KNOW SHE STILL POSSESSES THUMBS AND EYEBALLS?!”)
That day will come. And I’ll be damn lucky to see it.
In related news: right around when I got the good news this blog was a finalist for Best LGBT Blog for the 2011 Bloggies (about which, again: thank you! whichever of you nominated it! now aren’t you glad the voting period is over and I can get that sticky post down off the top of the page?), I got even more fantastic news. And I’m not talking about the boychild finally (FINALLY!) forming a more direct relationship with our household plumbing system, if you know what I mean. That itself was thrilling news. Thrillinger still has been the unexpected appearance on the horizon, then the bearing down la the Queen Mary (and you have to picture me dutifully bobbing around in my dingy, waiting to flag this baby down for ages), of a real, live, bona fide, fantastic, made-to-order, I couldn’t be more hopped up about it, full-time, J-O-B.
I am a modest and circumspect type (*cough!*), so I will wait a bit ’til I say much more about it other than, WAHOO!
All the hopping around the house WAHOO-ing was quickly followed by feverish flow-charting and Excel-wrangling and phone-calling and text-messaging, since we had to facilitate the transition for the first time in our parental history from being one-and-a-half income-earning parents to being two full-timer/ over-timers. Overnight, the childcare puzzle bumped up from tic-tac-toe-level complexity to three-dimensional chess. (Fortunately, as we’ve learned before, the more the merrier.) The S.S. Full-time J-O-B comes at what feels like an optimum time, family-wise. And we live in co-housing community, so no matter how wobbly the transition, we’re likely to be able to summon helping hands when needed. Hey, what do you think we’ve been meeting and compromising and processing like mad for, these past five years? The steep discount on our shared DSL? The eased grocery run burden? The free ‘n’ easy loaning back and forth of sugar-beers-cars?
Perhaps not surprisingly, through all the hub and the bub, I have been unable to give all my LD-appropriate thoughts the time and care they so richly deserve. Smack dab in the midst of the Bloggie voting period. So that whatever droves might have drove here wound up seeing… well, the blogular equivalent of my butt crack smiling sideways up from the rear of my jeans waistline as I bent over tending to my offline life. Heck, I even had a great chat with Cheryl Kilodavis, author of My Princess Boy, when she was in town over a week back. My fondest hope is that my interview with her gets to see the light of computer screen sometime before my interview with Lisa Cholodenko and Annette Benning does. Which, given I talked to those gals going on nine months ago, ain’t saying much. Still, a gal can hope.
Meanwhile, I tell myself what gobs and gobs of spiffy Anglomaniacal merch can now help remind me: keep calm and carry on.