It's been 16 years since that Sunday I woke up at 6:00 am from a dream of three of my strong women friends - D and C and S - and told my then husband that the baby was coming. "What, again?" he replied tiredly and rolled over and went back to sleep. Okay, I did have kind of a lot of false labor.
Later that day, though, after the fizzy pink wine prescribed by the midwife, I did actually have a 10 pound baby boy. Now he's over 6 feet tall, skinny and handsome and, when he bothers, totally wonderful to be around. He shall not be blogged about, I know. But today is his birthday - 11 years to the day after John Lennon died! How about that, Dalai Lama?! - and so I got him some suitable gifts, as pictured here. And some money, which is all he wanted and which, combined with gifts from doting grandmothers, has created a teenager who's richer than I am. Perfect Christmas timing - I, the mother, am dropping heavy hints about a certain jet bead necklace in the window of the cool little store on Biltmore Avenue. (Actually, I would like to drop that hint in everyone's mind. 3 strands of jet beads on black chain. Should be mine. Really, it should.)
In other news, I'm still groggy from the cold and the cold medicine and I'm really getting tired of being tired. Not to gross you out or anything (severe grossness warning!) but I can't believe that any one human being could possibly produce this much mucus. I mean, jesus, what have I, cornered the world market or something? Isn't there a medium sized country out there that is finding itself suddenly mucus free? Stupid cold.
Also, I just read a Spider Robinson book, Callahan's Key and while it's frankly awful, as are all Spider Robinson books, it still made me weirdly happy. It's good to read things that are upbeat and not very taxing on the brain while you're sick. In this book, the gang from Callahan's Place (if you have read these books, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, don't bother, really, unless you like bad puns, bad writing and, oh hell, I don't know, a certain charming joie de vivre that I somehow can't resist even while I sit there thinking "Why am I reading this total dreck?") migrates to Key West. They wax enthusiastic about Key West which means, probably, that the next Callahan book will be set in Asheville. It's the inevitable progression - everyone who used to like Key West is here now, and of course, they were followed by the sharks who drove them out of there and are now doing their level best to drive us out of here. Sigh.
But today is not a day for sadness or class warfare (except inasmuch as every day is a day for class warfare, rise up, eat the rich!) no, today is the day when we pause briefly and think, holy SHIT. Fliss has a 16 year old son! She's OLD! And, oh my god, the next few years are going to be hair raising - too hair raising for such an old person. That cave in Tibet sounds better all the time.
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