SACRILEGE?

Home this afternoon with a feverish child who's just whispered "uh-oh" from the bathroom.

That's never a good sign.

When I walk in, she's standing there with her pants at her ankles, leaning over the commode, her right sleeve rolled up to her elbow and just about to dive in for something.

"SAIA!!!!!!" I scream.

Startled, she whips around on the verge of tears.

"What are you doing, baby?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"Honey, just tell me what happened."

Her lower lip begins to tremble just a little. "I...I...was going potty...[sniff]...and the...the book fell in."

"Okay..." I begin.

"On top of my poop," she concludes.

[Ahhhhh. Crystal clear now. Thank you very much.]

"Babe, the book's dirty now and we'll have to throw it away, okay?" I try to explain without laughing. "Why don't you get dressed and wash your hands and Mama will take care of it, alright?"

But as I peer into the bowl trying conjure up what I could possibly use to fish out the book...that's veeeeeeery long...and disposable...well, I just so happen to notice Jesus is staring back at me. Yes, THE Jesus. Apparently, the little Story of Easter board book took a high dive off the toilet top and despite my not being an active religious practitioner of any sort, I have to admit that my old Catholic guilt actually kept me there for quite a while wondering what the hell to do. Literally.

What do I do with it? Do I throw it out? Can I do that? Who's gonna absolve me of this one?

I know, I know, ridiculous, right? But let me just try to explain this phenomenon by saying if you have ever, even once, when the whole fad first started, forwarded on a chain letter or email just on the one-in-a-million chance that you might possibly run into some bad luck some day in the very distant future, then you understand 1/100 of what Catholic guilt can do.

That being said, however, I'm a grown woman now -- and mostly sensible -- so into the trash it went. But I'll betcha a 5 spot I have nightmares tonight about diving into a garbage bin to rescue that damned poop laden thing so that I don't burn in hell for eternity.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIA SONIA!!!

May you live all the days of your life.
- Jonathan Swift

AND...

Inside every older person is a younger person -
wondering what the hell happened.
- Cora Harvey Armstrong

INTERLOPERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Children of the Corn is still, as...uh...corny as it is, one of my all time favorite horror flicks. I mean, you really can't beat it. Linda Hamilton before she was buff. Whatever that guy's name is who was on 30-Something, Peter somebody. And those kids. Scary, scary little suckers. Malachi haunted my dreams for yeeeeeeeears.

Aaaaanyway. There's this part of the movie, you may recall, when the freaky children all point their fingers at the strangers in town and yell, "INTERLOPERS!!!!!"or "OUTLANDERS!!!!!" Holy pre-pubescent cult following, Batman! I'm creeped out just talking about it again.

So, the other day...

"Mama?"

"Yes, Saia?"

"Why do those people still have Christmas lights on their houses?" Saia ponders aloud -- as she often tends to do.

"Oh, baby," I begin to explain. "They're just procrastinators."

"What's a crastinator, Mom?" asks Chago.

"A procrastinator, Son, is someone who is putting off doing something they should probably already have done," I sum up in a nice neat little package.

"Oh," says Saia, looking back out into the neighborhood, "okay."

And then every day, for the past two weeks -- that's 14 very long days, FYI -- they've each pointed and screeched at the top of their lungs as we drive by the still very merry looking homes in our little 'hood, "PROCRASTINATORS!!!!!!!!!!!"

And I gotta say...little creeped out over here.

DESPITE WHAT SUCKED

I know there were so many things you wanted to say.
I could see it in your eyes.
Felt it hanging over the room like a wet blanket.

I know you weren't done.
I know it wasn't fair.
I know you waited even with your last breath
for
a
miracle.

And I'm so sorry that we couldn't have done more,
and worse,
that maybe
we didn't even really try.

And I'm sorry that we didn't get to know you better.
That we didn't even bother
to find a way to
love you better.

That we didn't couldn't wouldn't
give you more of our
very
precious
time.

I'm so sorry
that we left you there to fend off the wolves
alone.
Making me sorriest for not making that last stand
sooner -- and louder -- and worthy of you.

I realize now that you needed me
more than you knew more than I knew.
And I should have been there.
Despite what sucked.
And I wasn't.
And I hope you'll forgive me
my pride.

For my Aunt Emma Marie, who lost her brief skirmish with cancer on January 23, 2007.