Just Because I'm Crabby It Doesn't Mean You're Not Rude

One Singular Sensation

I just spent the past hour carefully constructing a post about picking Patrick up today. I was trying to share something without being obnoxious and it was a fine line. I considered each adjective carefully. I pursed my lips and weighed the varying merits of similar verbs. I parsed. I honed. I deleted.

Oh damn it all! I deleted and deleted and then saw the whirling colored circle that foretells Mac doom and I held my breath while I waited to see if... yeah I deleted the freaking whole thing. 778 words, more or less, each of them perfect.


Patrick and I have a standing date. The twins go to bed around 7:45 and at eight o'clock on Fridays (if I am home from Date Night with Steve - Saturdays if I am not) we watch Project Runway. He makes popcorn. I drink wine. Steve joins us on the couch with his laptop so he is with us in body if not spirit and we discuss color and fabric and taste levels. Here's a hint: if Patrick thinks your fabric choices are over the top... man don't feed those bears. Patrick also does a wicked Nina Garcia (I just don't think it's... lip purse... appropriate.) Most recently - and I apologize if you have never watched this show because I know how annoying it is to be given obscure references - Patrick asked, "Why do they always say 'And the beautiful Georgina Chapman'? We can all see that she is beautiful but didn't they also say she has her own company and she must be successful or she wouldn't be a judge. Who wants to be known as beautiful when it has nothing to do with you?"

I said: I don't know.

(Gar. Three minutes late already.)

So I'm rushing here but the story I wanted to tell is that Patrick got a D on a Latin roots quiz this week and I saw it in his backpack today and wanted to smack his bottom. Not because he got a D (because we can all work to our abilities and still fall short) but because I knew for an absolute fact that he had not so much as looked at those Latin roots since he was handed the sheet and shoved it into his desk.

I said, "Patrick, do you want to tell me about this quiz?" and I held it up.

He said, "Yeah. I got a D."

I said, "Why?"

He said, "I thought I knew Latin! Like those kids who just pick up the violin and play it. I guess I don't. I'll study next time."

And I said, "And this? What was this?" I pointed to the bottom of his quiz.

"I thought she might give points for humor?'


I told him to shape up and I totally meant it.

Patrick has three birthday parties to attend this weekend. A school friend tomorrow morning, another school friend for a slumber party tomorrow night and then a neighbor on Sunday whose mom sent a very sweet note saying that her son really wants to invite Patrick but everyone else will be a second grader so if Patrick was uncomfortable they understood... AS IF.

My point - which was so eloquent the first time, alas - is that nothing, I mean nothing, that I thought I understood about raising Patrick was true.

I find it humbling, infinitely reassuring and I wish I had spent less time in the past worrying about him because I am always wrong about what's coming next.

PS 8:25. Not-Heidi here we come.