Thursday, July 26, 2007

Hell Of A Day...

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt.

Hell of a day today, doctor... hell of a day. Starts off in the usual manner... trying to get my son ready and out the door, with his constant heel-dragging and teeth-gnashing, and I almost expected him to actually dig his nails into the door jamb and make me pull him out while he tried to watch some random minutes of George Shrinks. I got him to gymnastics on time, no problem.

Long-assed day at work. Very long. Very busy. I'm necessary.

Then I brought the family home, and since my son had has his television privileges taken away today for his (lately, typical) behavior (he got into a fistfight because some kid was screwing with him and giving him wedgies), he sat on the recliner and pouted for two solid hours, ate his dinner, had a nice bath, and went to bed with no fuss at all. Half an hour later, he comes out and says he isn't tired. Well, ok, I go to put him back into bed...

... and he bursts into tears, crying that he doesn't want to have any more birthdays, because if he does, he's going to die.


This isn't the first time he's done this...

Son: When my fish die, I can get new fish?
Me: Probably, yeah.
Son: When my dad dies, me and mom will get a new one.
Me: Uhm... your dad?
Son: Yeah, when you die, we'll get a new one.
Me: Oh.


Son: When did she get sick?
Me: Well, a while ago. She was very old.
Son: Old people are sick?
Me: Some of them.
Son: When did she stop being sick?
Me: Uhm... when she died, I guess.
Son: When will we see her again?
Me: Uhm... we won't.
Son: When is she coming back?
Me: Uhm... she's not.
Son: Oh. That's not nice.
Me: I know.
Son: I can get new fish, from the Pet Store.
Me: Yes. Yes you can.

Or my favorite...

Son: We'll go straight home?
Me: That's right.
Son: We'll go in a straight line?
Me: Almost.
Son: We won't turn left or right?
Me: No, we'll have to turn.
Son: Why?
Me: Well, because we'd crash.
Son: Then we'd have to go to the hospital!
Me: That's right.
Son: Then we'd have to go to the church!
Me: Well.... yeah, I suppose that's true.
Son: No, we wouldn't go to the church.
Me: We wouldn't?
Son: No, other people would go to the church, people who wanted to see us one more time.
Me: ..... Yeah. Yeah, they would.

These are excerpts from my previous blog over the past year, where my son explores the wonder that is death. Tonight, though, was a sobbing breakdown in bed, crying that he'd have to learn how to get along without us when we died, that he'd have to get a new family and a new dad and a new mom and a new baby sister when we died, and if he kept having birthdays, then he'd die and he didn't want to die. I tried to reassure him as best I could, explaining that there was nothing on the planet that was going to hurt him as long as I was alive, because there's nothing on this planet that's scarier than me when it comes to my son.

Eventually he got calmed down, and chuckled when he told me a knock-knock joke. Now, two hours later, he's just finally fallen asleep.


Try as I might, and my son is turning out just like me.

I couldn't find anything funny tonight.

No comments: