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I have been thinking about life mottos, (for lack of any better phrasing, somebody help me) for the boys.  Things that might sound old fashioned, but fit my kids’ particular personalities at this point in their precious precious lives.  Things that old men around the saloon would repeat when talking about them.  It started as what might be on their tombstone, but they’re kids, so what might be on their t-shirt.

For Arthur – “Uses things in ways the manufacturer never intended.”

For Clifton – “In response to your kind offer of only one.  I cheerfully say,  I’ll take two, no three.”

I know, lots of work to go on these t-shirt ideas.

Tonight, I’m languishing at a social event where I feel like a disconnected poser with very little to contribute to begin with and therefore nothing to contribute now.  Earth goddess Carol, introduces me as a godmother of “The 13 Lessons.”  My soul weeps with the thought of this as my epitaph.


Thinking about the purpose of my life.  Again.

Driving to the grocery store at night; thinking about asking Carla about those life coach questions that get at your relationship to your mother, how alike or not alike you are; your nature and nurture inheritance (if you will, I would say if I was a nonprofit corporate executive).

In pops Dad, expecting things of me,  Why don’t I write?  What great things am I doing with my life?

Then all of a sudden I am suffused with the presence of Dad.  He is standing in front of me, looking at me and smiling.  Giving me his full attention.  I can’t remember the last time I had that from him, even before he died.  He is smiling his approval and his acceptance of me right now.

Thank you to whichever elegant sent his presence to me in my driving time of need.

During tonight’s wrestlin wranglin bedtime rodeo, the man-cold pops in to inquire politely if I might care to squeeze some oranges for its parched throat.

I wish I could say that I responded with all (as Mom would say) sweetness and light, but that’s not exactly how it went down.

I actually said nothing, as I held one slippery eel kid down with my knee and tossed pillows at the other one to slow his accelerating loping across the kitchen.  I’ve learned to say nothing at first.


We’ve already gotten scientific proof that when we both had colds a few weeks ago (or forever), I had to get giant stupendous antibiotics for mine, yet his complaints were 10 times what mine were.

He says it’s therapy, to groan like that.  I say go for the in-patient care and move directly to the hospital.  I don’t.  Really.  I say nothing at all.