“You are sick, Isabelle,” the cold mother said,
“And you’ve thrown up every hour, on the hour;
And yet you continue to beg for some bread—
Could your breath be any more sour?”
“In my youth,” Little Bella replied to her mum,
“Way back when I was still embryonic,
You feared I would never stop sucking my thumb,
Which proved you were quite histrionic.”
“You are old,” she continued, “and between me and you
It’s plain you can’t bother to hide
The sad fact that you love it when I get the flu—
It’s shameful, and demented, and snide.”
“In my youth,” said the woman, and she smiled rather faintly,
“I imagined I’d be more maternal;
But then I had children who were bad and unsaintly—
Euphemistically speaking, you’re infernal.”
“And so,” she concluded, “it is natural that
“I’d seek such solace as availed me;
Perhaps this is cruel, but I hold tit for tat
A philosophy which has least derailed me.”
I must seriously be the most self-loathing person in Idaho. Took the family to the mall after dinner because we were out of yogurt culture. That’s right, we drove to the mall to buy us some culture. I proposed that dessert should be a bonbon per person from See’s Candy. This was met with wide approval.
In the Felliniesque freak show that is our mall, I recognize that my children draw extra attention to themselves for their pure outsider-dom. Bella was wearing a long-sleeved dress with rubber boots that are now so small they make her limp. Oh, and it was 96 degrees in the shade. Callie “covered” herself in scraps of sluttiness derived from the latest bag left on our front door step by I really don’t know whom. The waistband of William’s track pants was hoisted to its usual position, two inches south of his nipples.
But then I noticed his ear:
It somehow escaped my attention that his left ear was either stung or bitten yesterday. He can’t remember the exact details. But the effect is horrific. It looks like a fistful of flesh-colored playdough, three times larger than normal and (how is this even possible?) quite a bit lower on his head.
Last week of summer, I am very much over you.
Exhibit A: Unretouched photograph of the snake that was just inches away from my exposed and quite succulent ankle, as well as its identical twin (made out of a stick).
I hate to be a whiner about this* but it’s my opinion that the possibility of encountering live snakes whilst accompanying a class of third-graders on their field trip should be FULLY disclosed in advance. Although this would have the effect of reducing the pool of parents willing to chaperone their child’s class from “almost none” to “exactly zero,” it would still be more sporting. You might argue that when I volunteered to go to a place called “Birds of Prey,” I relinquished certain rights. I dispute that, and will see you in court, sir.