The past few days, people in my life have been saying things that make me laugh, or sigh.
We were having breakfast before school the other day. The front page of the newspaper had a big article and photo about single-sex schools. One of my kids read the headline out loud.
"Single-gender Middle Schools."
"I smell sit-com," Tucker said, between mouths of Lucky Charms.
I don't know why it cracked me up. Maybe it was the way he held out the word smell and went up on the "com" part. Sometimes I forget they're these real people with lives and opinions of their own. Maybe it's because I can see him as a grown up in a room pitching or rejecting ideas for television and movies. It's good to start the day laughing anyway.
On Friday night, I was teaching, but I checked my text messages during the break. I got one from my best friend, working desperately to save her (doomed) marriage. She'd gone out to dinner with her husband.
"Another nice meal ruined by a side order of blame," she texted. I love the image of them both looking at the menus and the husband saying, "I'll have the rigatoni and she'll take the blame, sauce on the side please."
As a bonus for me, the blame continued the next morning, and my best friend drove four hours to see me yesterday. We had dinner and margaritas then watched a good movie The Bloom Brothers.She's sleeping in the other room now and I'm looking forward to a nice walk downtown for some coffee.
The thing that made me sigh was a Facebook post from Tucker's girlfriend. She's a fairly mature 13-year-old. Not mature like those girls who dress slutty and wear make up. She's modest and smart, but apparently a romantic. Maybe all 13-year-old girls are.
I was gone all day Friday, I mean all day. I taught from 8-11 a.m., made it to a college visit at noon with Grace and her friends. Got back at 5 and then taught from 6-10 p.m. My boys were, of course, left to run wild. They had the day off school.
Tucker had left my computer onto his Facebook page. I'm not certain if this was posted to his girlfriend's page or if it was a conversation they were having, but she had written, if not a poem, some poetical lines.
The gist was that her hand, her fingers, no the spaces between her fingers, felt empty without his fingers there between them.
Well. Holding hands is a very innocent pasttime. I'm trying to remember the thrill of that first time a boy took my hand and held it. All I get is the memory of sweaty palms and then kisses with a lot of drool involved.
And I worry that soon it may not just be fingers that are longing for contact. Other body parts may feel the need for skin time, and, I just can't think about it.
I've already asked Earl to buy a box of condoms and put it in the boys' bathroom.
I prefer it so much when they make me laugh rather than when they make me sigh.
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