Next in Line

First the Bub had the swine flu. Then I got a stomach virus. Now he has strep throat. Will we ever get well around here? With so much time lying in bed watching movies, listening to audio books, thinking about life, love, school and what not, I've made a few decisions about this blog. First off, I accepted an offer to blog once a month over at our daily newspaper's Web site. Just for fun. We'll see how it goes. And second, over there I use my real name. Which is kinda freaky.

Now, with the Bub getting older and headed out of the preschool womb into the harsh realities of kindergarten, I think it's time to begin practicing some privacy for him. So, I will no longer be posting pictures of his adorable mug or writing as intimately about his comings and goings. Also, as much as I'm a peace, love and innocent soul, I know there are creepy weirdos out there who might take advantage of my naivete about my son. (If you happen to be one of those said weirdos reading this now, just know... I know where you live... I have software that can pinpoint your exact location and if you so much as look sideways at me or my child I will hunt you down and kill you slowly, probably using a chainsaw or some other backyard implement which I keep close at hand. Think hedge clippers, if you know what I mean. Seriously, I have slightly psychotic tendencies myself, so watch out!) Anyways, I will continue to use this as a forum for bitching and musing and whining and crying and laughing about the world... which leads me to my current annoyance.

A few nights ago, with a raging case of diarrhea, nausea and a splitting headache, I dragged myself into the local minor emergency clinic a hour before they were set to close. I took a seat among the dozen or so other sicklings and waited patiently for my turn. About 45 minutes later... the place had cleared out save for me and two other mothers, both of which had small toddlers draped over them. Both boys. Both looking as if they were on death's door. Sad sad sad. So I'm sitting there feeling sorry for the poor angels, when in walked a mother and her probably 14-year-old boy. She was flipping around in some Coach loafers lugging a giant Gucci purse twice the size of her torso. She was very very skinny with what had to have been an eating disorder and wore jeans that sagged off her. You know the look where either she can't find jeans that are -2 and actually fit her, or she is so screwed up in the head that she thinks she's fat so she wears loose jeans to mask the size of her ass.

So anyway, her son followed her in, clutching his wrist, neatly wrapped in an ace bandage. The woman said hello to the nurse in a familiar way.

"Hi, it's us again. The fourth time this month. Yeah, same wrist. Hurt in basketball this time."

They filled in their paperwork and sat down with the rest of us. The boy messed with an iPhone, while the mother repeatedly complained out loud that the boy had a dance to get to... and, of course, I knew what was coming. After a few minutes, the woman marched past me and the dying toddlers, and leaned far into the nurses station and whispered something. I saw the nurse shake her head no. The woman leaned in a little further. The nurse, again, shook her head no. The woman leaned in even closer, and the nurse still shook her head firmly. "Sorry."

To which the woman turned around and yelled in a huff.

"This is ridiculous. Let's go honey, you have to get to the dance. This is taking far too long. We'll come back in the morning."

And the boy answered loudly for all to hear.

"I'm in far too much pain to sit here all night."

But not in too much pain to play with his iPhone and go to the dance and expect to show up and cut in front of two dying children because in his quest to become quarterback or head cheerleader or whatever, he repeatedly gets sport's injuries because he's a buffoon.

Yeah, I know. I'm awful, right? He's just a boy... but he's well on his way to believing that the world owes him something... just because. Had the two been nice and sweet, and I'd overheard their woes on accident, I might even have offered them my spot. Because I'm that sort of woman, hoping to raise that sort of son.

That said, after seeing a life size poster of Harry Potter and his owl at the doctor's office, the Bub has been obsessed with asking questions about him... so I am currently spoiling the Bub's future eight-year-old fun by allowing him to listen to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone while I sit here and write. There will be no school today, and later, we'll pack up and head to the farm so the Bub can ogle all the baby kids born last week.

I'll continue writing about books, motherhood, womanhood and boys. I'll keep trying to raise the kind of boy who would give a nice kid a break in line. The kind of boy who would avenge my death should I be murdered by a mysterious wizard whose name can not be spoken. The kind of boy who'd rather keep some things private.

Funny, really. It's not his fault he was born to a mother with a mouth.