Organization puts the son off his groove. He complains for weeks afterward that someone has been in his stuff and he won’t find anything again, ever! Ah, but I have an ulterior motive. Stay with me while I explain how the supremacy cycle can solve this problem.
“Don’t worry!” I yell as I swoop in, “Out of the Way! I’ll help!” Slipping into a Superhero persona is the only way to really make mental contact with the son. To reach him at his level, I introduce the comic book super villain, Batty Mothre whose arrival follows the comic book formula and creates greater mayhem, destruction and chaos and places the victim in even greater peril.
The son is expecting that, but the second phase of rescue calls for my character to follow the typical storyline and morph from bad to good and become noble and heroic. Again, utilizing the tried and true comic formula, my character then spends the next sixteen pages morphing from good to bad, back to good. I die twice and then I resurrect and rescue the victim from the disaster with my superhuman powers. And amid all of the confusion, I construct a force field that blows everything back to rights and he is ever and most eternally grateful, just like those confused souls in Gotham and this is how the tiny little cycle of supremacy pedals onward.
It’s me again,… the power of ruling the Lego world is similar to being a Super Villain toying with mankind. Aside from the obvious pleasures of wrenching the tiny people from their comfort zones, putting Mr. Motorcycle in Water-ski World, I can relocate entire civilizations. Vikings are quartering with cowboys and knights are swimming with underwater aliens.
At least their heads are. I divest the heads from the bodies and divide them into their own chambers, along with hats, weapons, bodies, and legs.
Help me,
Reality Bite: Be armed and aware… and afraid
Monday
Thursday
Frenetic
The frenetic life has somehow become my necessity, not choice. Saturdays and summers were once my own. I swore I would never be a free-wheelie mom, but here I am, dreaming of the compulsory hiatus of a flat tire, or an empty tank.
To: tripupmom
I called Triple A again. They promised at least a half-hour wait. When he came, I was sunning myself on the hood of the car and he complemented my shoes. Sometimes immediate online response is not all it’s cracked up to be. T.
I try to remind myself daily that for now, this is my road.[1] This detour in my life—continual craziness—will pass by too quickly and soon I will be sorry that I didn’t appreciate the view and savor the entire journey.[2] Still, I can’t help wondering how close to the curb I’m cutting and which direction the curve ahead will take.
To: thatsritch@take.out
I sat in traffic today while the children chanted, “We’re late; we’re late. It is our lifelong fate. My Mom is driving. Sorry mate! We’re late, we’re late, we’re late.” I do this joyously, right? T.
Like any rut or pothole, it’s hard to gauge the depth of the depression ahead while skidding toward it pell-mell. Not until I’ve careened through it and turned around to look back at the whole, can I really understand how deeply I was in.
Reality Bite: Maybe oblivion is not such a bad thing after all.
[1] …as my Mom reminds me, lest I forget.
[2] …and therefore there is no sympathy to be had down that avenue.
To: tripupmom
I called Triple A again. They promised at least a half-hour wait. When he came, I was sunning myself on the hood of the car and he complemented my shoes. Sometimes immediate online response is not all it’s cracked up to be. T.
I try to remind myself daily that for now, this is my road.[1] This detour in my life—continual craziness—will pass by too quickly and soon I will be sorry that I didn’t appreciate the view and savor the entire journey.[2] Still, I can’t help wondering how close to the curb I’m cutting and which direction the curve ahead will take.
To: thatsritch@take.out
I sat in traffic today while the children chanted, “We’re late; we’re late. It is our lifelong fate. My Mom is driving. Sorry mate! We’re late, we’re late, we’re late.” I do this joyously, right? T.
Like any rut or pothole, it’s hard to gauge the depth of the depression ahead while skidding toward it pell-mell. Not until I’ve careened through it and turned around to look back at the whole, can I really understand how deeply I was in.
Reality Bite: Maybe oblivion is not such a bad thing after all.
[1] …as my Mom reminds me, lest I forget.
[2] …and therefore there is no sympathy to be had down that avenue.
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