Monthly Archives: June 2012

Claire was trying to control her aggravation.

This was the third time in as many days that she had complained to Jim about the garage refrigerator.And the problem had been ongoing for weeks, if not months by now.  Her frustration was rising.  If that thing went, she would have one hell of a mess on her hands, dammit.

She could not fix it herself, that much was obvious.  She needed help.

Jim was no refrigerator mechanic, by any means, but he was closer to being one than she was.

And, besides, he was the man, dammit.  Busted refrigerators fell under his jurisdiction.  As did roof repairs, yardwork and bug disposal.

When was the last time he’d been grocery shopping, washed laundry or cleaned out the freezer of said frige, uh?  Yeah.  Probably the last time she’d had a baby was when.

She could feel her anger and aggravation rising.

She felt she had two choices.  She could become the stereotypical nag that society seemed to predestine her to become…

Or she could come up with another way.

She did the dishes and pondered the situation.

Later that night, once Jim was done with all he needed to do for the day and got himself comfortable in his Lazy boy, Claire sat down in his lap and put her arms around Jim.

“Honey, do you remember our first date?” she asked.

“Of course, I do, babe,” Jim replied, sweetly,

“You remember how you took me to dinner at that wonderful sushi place you knew and ordered for me?”

“I do.”

“And then you picked out a movie you thought I would like and after we walked along to river holding hands?”

“I do.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Well, babe, I was thinking about how beautiful you were and how smart you were,” Jim said with a mischievous smile.

“Sure, you were.  I know you.  You were thinking about how many dates it would take to get me in bed!” Claire only half-joked. She knew her husband.

“Well, that was part of it.  I did want you.  I still do,” he pulled her closer and kissed her.

“Did you like impressing me with your knowledge and manliness?” Claire asked innocently.

“Of course I did.”

“And do you remember when you broke my corkscrew and then went and bought me that fancy-schmancy one that like shot a thing through the cork?”

“Yes.  I was trying to impress you.”

“I have to admit you did a good job.  Cooking me dinner, taking me to the symphony, building me that bookcase over there.  I still love it the best of everything we own, by the way.”

“Your wish is my command, my love,” Jim said.  And Claire knew he still meant it.

“Well, honey, I need you to remember those days.  I need you to remember when I was your new girlfriend Claire who  had recently caught your eye in that ridiculous professor’s philosophy class.  The one who wore lounge pants and pony-tails to class. The one who you asked no less than five people in that class if they knew anything about me.

I need you to remember that guy who I first noticed before either of us had ever set foot in that class.  By the time it got back to me that you were asking about me, I already knew you lived off campus, had come out of a sour relationship with that bitchy sorority chick, what’s-her-name.  I knew all this because I saw you the first day of class and wanted you then and there.

How cute you were when I caught you watching me. You made me melt when you caught my eye.

“Do you remember those days, honey?”

Jim smiled.  He did remember those days very well. How cute Claire had looked.  She’d seemed almost shy, until the professor had said something she deemed ridiculous and she called him on it, eventually arguing her point until he gave in.  Man, she’d been fun to watch from a distance.  All he’d known is that he wanted to spend time with this girl.  He wanted to get to know her.  And, yes, he’d most certainly wanted to get her little spitfire self in bed.  And the sooner the better.  His smile widened at the memory.

“Honey, it may have been 17 years ago and lots may have happened to the college kids we once were. “

“I know, babe.  But it has all been worth it.”

“So, honey, I need you to do something for me.  I need you to be that guy who watched me from across the room.  Who wanted to take me and show me the world.  And who really wanted to get me in bed. The one who really wanted to impress me, fix things for me and just generally be my man.

“Think you still got it in you?” Claire said coyly.

“Yeah, babe.  I am your man.  I am up to whatever challenge you have.”

Claire leaned forward and kissed him.

“Oh, good, honey,” she paused before nervously continuing, “because I really need you to do something about that damn frige in the garage. It is pissing me off and I cannot do anything about it!”

Claire waited, not sure how Jim was going to take it.

After taking a few seconds for it to register, Jim looked at her blankly, then he laughed out loud. Claire could still surprise him after 17 years.  He kissed her.

“Yes, baby, I am still your man.  I will fix the frige, have it fixed by a repairman or replace it by next Saturday.  Does that work for you?”

“Yes, honey, that works. Thank you so very much,” Claire grinned and kissed him sweetly once… and then again more deeply.

“Now how about you take me to bed… and find out if I am still the little spitfire you thought I was.”

“Your wish is my command, babe.”


Being that this weekend is Father’s Day, I’ve had some shopping to do.  Like every woman in my situation, I struggle with what to do for Father’s Day  – and I have three of them in my life. 

Ezra’s dad and I are divorced but we have managed (with lots of soul-searching and knock-down-drag-out text fights over about a year) to come to terms with the fact that he and I, along with Jay, are raising this child together and we all love Ezra and have his best interests at heart.  We get along very well now, especially for people in our situation.  I am grateful for that.

In that spirit, he very nicely got me a Mother’s Day gift that he let Ezra pick out. So last night it was my turn.

Ezra and I went to dinner and then went to a collegiate sports store to get his dad’s gift. 

Another thing you have to understand about me and my family and our Southerness is that we are an Auburn family. 

Big time. 

My dad went there, Jay graduated from there, Jay’s little brother is there now.

I was raised to be an Auburn fan from birth.  And I will do the same for my children. 

This is a BIG deal down here in the South.  The SEC rules the roost.  The other day, my brother posted a simple, “100 Days!” on his Facebook page and I immediately knew that it was exactly that long till the first Game Day of the 2012 season (it is down to the 80s by now! Yay! I cannot wait!)

Ezra’s dad, on the other hand, is a graduate of the Corps of Cadets at Texas A&M. Yes, the very Texas A&M who left the Big whatever conference and are coming to the SEC this year.  And playing one of their initial SEC games against Auburn in Auburn. And being that the Corps is the oldest military student organization in the country and Ezra’s dad was in the Corps band, which never missed a game his entire college career, he is a bit of an A&M fan in his own right. 

Never during the years I was married to Ezra’s dad did this become a real issue. I will watch any college football and as Auburn and A&M were in different conferences they never met up on the field. 

Until this year.  So this is gonna be fun. 

I have already done my best to inoculate Ezra from his father’s A&M influence.  He has a myriad of Auburn paraphernalia from the pennant hanging in his room to pom-poms, jackets, hats and other such items. 

More importantly he watches the games with us.  Mostly because he has no choice, but we also try to explain it to him and play football with him.  You know, make it fun and teach him.  It will be a whole family deal. Sawyer already has Auburn gear to grow into (he wore his first AU shirt in the hospital when he was born – you get the idea?). 

It is a full indoctrination program we have going. And Ezra’s dad has both noted and commented on this on several occasions. 

Despite that, and with full recognition of the fact that I am such a big person spirit of thanks and Father’s Day, I bought Ezra’s dad an A&M flag he could fly outside his home with pride for A&M’s first season in the SEC.  He will come to understand why the SEC is the most respected conference in the country and he will, eventually – provided A&M can hang – enjoy that same pride. 

But a part of me was a bit concerned about purchasing something that could be used to undermine the Auburn training Ezra has had up till this point.  So when Ezra asked very sweetly if he could get a little plastic Auburn helmet for two bucks at the register, I smiled and bought it for him.

And this morning when I dropped him off at school, he wanted to take the little helmet in for an additional show-and-tell. Hm, imagine that. 

“Can I take the Auburn helmet to my Daddy’s house, Mommy?” he asked innocently as he got out of the car.

“You sure can, love. I got it just for you to keep at Daddy’s house, ok?  War Eagle!!”

“War Eagle, Mommy!”

We high-fived.

That’s right Ezra.


You know why it seems like a fairy tale when you hear a real life story that moves you?

Because you are not seeing all the in-between bits that got a person to where they are. 

You are simply reading an account of the major events without having to live through the time and little details that seemed eternal to the person actually living it. 

In this time of instant gratification (something that is not likely to change any time soon, if technology is any indication), we are used to hearing the story in an hour tv show, a 200 page book or a 20 minute conversation. 

But the events we are listening to actually took place over years, sometimes decades. 

It is only with that distance that we get the opportunity to look at someone’s own personal story as inspirational or moving. However, I can guarantee that the person who lived every minute and second of the story does not have the same fairy tale perspective.  And they didn’t know everything would turn out ok in the end.  As a matter of fact, unless they are dead, the story has not even ended yet.  There is still time to lose it all – or gain it, as the case may be.

No Fairy Godmother swoops in and fixes everything in an instant. You have to do it yourself, one day – or minute – at a time.

We all know that JK Rowling has literally gone from rags to riches.  We know she is a wonderfully talented author whose work has been both critically acclaimed and read worldwide by a range of readers from critics and literary types to families and children. 

What we don’t always think about is that she got the idea for HP in 1990 and, while writing the first book married, had a child and divorced, eventually being forced on to welfare as a single mother before the first manuscript was finished in 1995. 

I am pretty sure she had no clue she would be a billionaire by March of 2011.  

While I read biographical information in a few minutes, this rags-to-riches story played out over a decade of hardship for her.  One I am pretty sure held many sleepless nights of mental torture wondering how she was going to get through the next day, much less the next decade. 

Stephen King (my most favorite writer) almost lost it all – or maybe never would have even had it.  He threw Carrie in the trash after writing it in the laundry room while he was an English teacher. His wife dug it out and got him to finish it (and we all thank her for that).  He also does not remember even writing The Shining because he was every bit as strung out as Jack Torrance (his character) was.  That just about cost him his family.  Yet now he is seen as the epitome of a successful writer. 

These are only fairy tales of the rich, lucky and successful now because we don’t see the days of rejections and living paycheck to paycheck. We don’t see the minutes, hours, days, weeks and years or waiting and working and hoping. To us – and only us, the audience – this seems to have happened over night.

And this is true of all kinds of successful people (not just writers) from Lance Armstrong to Warren Buffett.

Seeing only the end result makes you wonder, “Why can’t that kind of thing happen to me?”

What we often don’t consider is that, just maybe, it is. It may be happening to you right now.

Really?  Is there such a thing? I don’t think there is.  Words are not “good” or “bad” any more than any other tool available to mankind.  It is ridiculous to say that they are.  It would be like saying a hammer is bad.  Well, not if you are nailing floorboards, but maybe if you are hitting someone with it.

If you disagree that is fine with me, but I would recommend you unsubscribe and quit following this blog now for both our sakes.  We will both be happier people.  Because otherwise I am going to offend you and you are going to piss me off.  Stop reading here.

While I don’t believe that words can be categorized as good and bad, I am sure there is appropriateness.

And there are plenty of times it is perfectly appropriate to just say “Fuck.”

Like when I get off the phone with my cell phone company that, a mere six months ago, sold me a phone for $250 that is either defective or is incapable of performing the functions I need it to perform.  And the only thing they will do is wipe all of my information off of it (with no help for backing it up and saving it – I just lose it), reset it and give it back to see if that works.  No help and no new phone… I am just out six months of information or $250 or, most likely both.


See? Totally appropriate.

You know with that one word the feelings of anger, frustration and powerlessness I felt.  And believe you me, it was most certainly necessary (Although I will say that I did not use any harsh language with the customer service rep.  I didn’t need to.  I am pretty sure she knew.  And it was not her fault.  Just a fucked up policy that left me hanging out to dry).

In the spirit of appropriateness, though, when I posted a little vent of a post on Facebook, I did not use the word Fuck, because it is so incendiary.  I said suck and DAMMIT.  Much better.  Obviously, not everyone agreed with me.  But that is fine.  There is an unsubscribe button that works just fine.  I tested it.

When I was a kid I was taught not to cuss (you see how well that worked).  And in my parents’ house, “gosh” was considered a cuss word as it was just a substitute word for taking the Lord’s name in vain (which, by the way is the only forbidden word I know of in the Bible.  That “idle words” passage does not count as cuss words are certainly not idle, but very active and hardworking words).  But I am pretty sure that God (or at least the God my parents believe in) was not fooled by “shoot” or “dog-on-it” or “dag nabbit” or anything else.  So you might as well have the balls to just say “shit” or “god dammit” and not try to pull the wool over God’s eyes by using euphemisms.  I’m pretty sure he already knew what you wanted to say, anyway, right?

I love words.  English is ripe with stolen words from other times and languages.  As far as I am concerned, there is a reason for all of them.  There is a word or series of words for any emotion or idea you would like to express.  And some of those ideas and emotions are decidedly negative and may require harsher words to fully express them.

That doesn’t mean I believe harsh language should be used against a person.  Calling someone a name is never appropriate (Rush Limbaugh, I am talking to you – and a lot of people would not consider “slut” a cuss word – I think they are missing the point). It is wrong to demean others whether the words you use are cuss words are not.  And, trust me, I am from the South.  You can be dressed down mightily without so much as a “dammit” crossing someone’s lips down here.  And that crap about sticks and stones and words will never hurt you is bullshit (see, perfectly appropriate use of that word because it is just that – bullshit). Words can hurt more than anything and the scars from them can last a lifetime.

Intent.  That is the key. Using harsh words to express your own harsh feelings and circumstances is fine.  Using words to hurt others, whether they are cuss words or not, is never ok.

I have been told in polite surroundings, that cussing is the refuge of a low mind lacking the ability to express itself.  But I don’t buy that for a second.  Having less of a vocabulary to choose from because certain words are off the table does not make you a more expressive person.  It makes you a person who has decided to limit your vocabulary.

If that is your choice, that is fine with me, but don’t expect me to do the same. I like to have the full repertoire to choose from, thank you.

Now there may be those who simply have a shitty, worthless vocabulary consisting of mostly cuss words and who are inarticulate in any other way so they over use cuss words to get their point across.  But that kind of person has a communication problem and maybe a literacy problem, not a cussing problem.

As far as kids go, well, that is a decision that each parent has to make.  I try not to say damn, shit or fuck around my four year old.  I don’t like hearing them from my 20 year old, either. But even my four year old knows that shit is a “grown up word,” so I am pretty sure someone’s ten year old has heard it before as well. And I didn’t friend your kids on Facebook.  But I went to middle school and high school.  There is not a ten year old living outside a compound that hasn’t heard – or used – a cuss word. If you think that there is, you are living under a rock. Or maybe in a compound.

And just like sex or anything else you have to teach your kids about, you had better be ready to teach appropriateness of words and actions.  Because they are going to do things that you would rather they not – cuss, drink, have sex.  And, of the three, I’d much rather hear my kids say shit.

On Alabama/US Highway 231, you can traverse the entire state north to south.  But when you hit a stretch of road in the southeast corner of the state between the small college town on Troy (home of the Troy Trojans) and the town of Ozark, you are near a very special place.

Aunt Maug and Uncle Hubbert’s farm. 

The farm is located just outside of Brundidge, Alabama, which bills itself as “Alabama’s Own Antique City.” And that, I suppose, is one way of putting it.  

Once you get south of Brundidge on 231, you have to start looking for the turn.  It is practically hidden.  And the road you are looking for is not paved with asphalt, but concrete slabs.  About halfway down that concrete slab paved road is a sign that says Tennille with an arrow pointing down Shiver Road.

Shiver, as in Hubbert and Maug Shiver, my mother’s sister and her husband.

It is fitting that the road is now named after them, but when I was growing up it was simply Route 2, Brundidge.  And my Uncle Hubbert was the mailman for the area. 

You go almost exactly a mile down Route 2/Shiver Road and as you come around at curve you can look down a hill and see the farm.  The gray house had changed a bit since I was a child, but it is certainly recognizable – as is the small house across the street where Uncle Hubbert was born in 1928. During the 1980s it was Aunt Maug’s shop where she designed flower arrangements and had a wedding planning business. 

Uncle Hubbert worked full time delivering mail, but he also ran a fully functioning farm. At one time or another he raised horses, chickens and pigs.  He also had fields of soy beans, corn and no telling what else I don’t know about during my childhood. Uncle Hubbert is one of the two hardest working and most respectable men I know.

I could not begin to count the nights I have spent there.  As a matter of fact, up until my brother was born when I was 4, Santa Claus only came to the farm.  I don’t even think he knew where our house on East Collins Street in Dothan was.

At one point or another, my mother and all of her sisters called the farm home.  Before I was born my grandmother’s house was moved from Tennille (a now dead town my mother’s family moved out of – with the exception of my grandfather who is buried there in a lost graveyard behind the kudzu covered ruin of a church) to the farm and still stands on an acre of land next to my aunt and uncle’s house, even though my grandmother – who would have been 101 on April 2nd – has been dead over a decade now.

I barely remember the pigs or my older cousin’s horses.

But I can remember reaching under chickens for eggs and bringing them back to the house for breakfast.

I wish I could tell you all about it. 

About Suzi the Suzuki motorcycle Daddy and Uncle Hubbert used to ride us cousins on – along with the smaller less impressive, but still fun to ride, Yamaha.  We used to go down the dirt road and stop and pick blackberries still warm from the sun for a snack. 

About the tractor that was built sometime in the 1940s, but Uncle Hubbert assures me still runs like a champ.  I cannot imagine how many miles Uncle Hubbert has logged on her – I have a few miles under my belt as well.

About the stars you can see from the yard on a clear night. 

About my grandmother’s flower beds (when she was alive), sassy as ever and could grow anything – with a dip of snuff in her lip. 

About Roadey the donkey that once literally kicked Uncle Hubbert in the ass – and then got a kick back. 

Jumping hay bales with my cousins. 

Skipper and Gigi – the untamable horses.

Fire ants!

Fishing with a cane pole with my grandmother an cousins. 

Simon the Siamese cat who we thought would live forever.  And, for a cat, he just about did.

Fish frys on Saturdays.

Cutting down Christmas trees. 

Sleepovers at my grandmother’s with my cousins.

Stickers in the yard.  (I learned to always wear shoes.  Grown ups did not like it when you got stuck and they had to come rescue you when you ran out of bald patches of ground to walk on between the houses.)

Climbing trees. 

Fighting and playing and running like mad with the closest things to sisters I have ever had – my cousins.

No matter how far any of us have roamed we have all come back to Aunt Maug and Uncle Hubbert’s at one time or another and basked in the memories of our childhood. 

I think it is getting time for a trip home.

I remember:

The first time I felt you move.

The first time I saw you.

Crying the first time I was left totally alone with you and I realized it was my job to keep you safe and alive.  I was scared to death. I still am.

Sleeping with you and nursing you as a baby.

Taking you to Ft. Rucker ER in the middle of the night with croup.

What a beautiful baby girl you were – literally.  Everyone knew it – all they had to do was look at you.  And then you would smile and cackle and they really loved you.

That your first word was “light.”

Singing “Five Sleepyheads” every single night for 4 years straight. Reading One Fish, Two Fish every night for at least 2 years.  And I still am able to recite The Cat and the Hat for Ezra now because of you. 

Moving into our first apartment together at Fieldcrest in Dothan.  For the first time you had a yard to play in and we spent hours at the pool playing. For the first time I was a single mother.  For the first time I had my own apartment – with you. 

The night you fell into that pool upside down with a swim ring on (because you didn’t listen to me and stay off the deep end ladder) and had to be pulled out by your ankle.  And I put you right back into the shallow end before you had a chance to be scared.

Your wide, scared eyes from your car seat the time I hydroplaned and wrecked on the way to take you to daycare.  You never made a peep while the car was spinning, when we hit the tree (a very small one with the back bumper, thank goodness) or even after I got you out.  You didn’t know what to think, so you just took it in stride and trusted me.  You were 1.

The first time you ever flew. You were 2.

The first wedding you were in.  You were 2.

The time you cut your hair while I napped on the couch.  You were 4. I still have the hair – dated.

The second wedding you were in.  You were 4.

When you broke your tooth at Aunt Maug’s and how cute you looked when you smiled with that chipped front tooth. 

Being the tooth fairy.

You dressing up in Monna’s clothes for a tea-party at First Presbyterian preschool – complete with hat and pearls. I have pictures.

When you broke your ankle in kindergarten. Twice.  I still have both casts.

Taking you to Disney World, Epcot and Universal Studios for you 5th birthday.

Field day, relay races and “We Are The Champions” in Miss Stevens’ class.

The third wedding you were in.  You were 8.

Reading Harry Potter to you… and then you reading them to me.

Going to the Peanut Festival and the beach every year with April, Jess and Tim.

Your sprinkler birthday party in our front yard.

Your first prize winning photograph.

The poem about America you had published.

Taking you and Anesia to tour the USS Alabama – and watching a live news broadcast.

Going to Dauphin Island just the two of us on Saturdays. Stopping at the farmer’s market stand on the way home.

Going to Orange Beach just the two of us.  We walked along the beach and you caught hermit crabs with the other kids at night.

Mardi Gras in Mobile. I still have a jar full of our coolest beads.

That you used to ride your bike everywhere, and I let you – as long as you had the walkie talkie and stayed within its range.

All the hermit crabs you had. Well, most of them. And the other pets – Miles, Snidge… the good ones.

The second time you flew.  You were 12.

Your 13th birthday party in our back yard… with the unbreakable piñata and shaving cream fight.

How well read and articulate you are.

Your art.

Your photography.

Your writing.

I know how smart you are. 

I know how strong willed and defiant you are. 

I know how talented you are. 

I know how much potential you have.

 I know how good you are.

I know because I made you and raised you.  For good or bad.  For both of us.

But I need you to know these things as well. 

I need you to know that, at 20, your life is really just beginning.  It may not seem like it, but it is.  I know this because I have lived your lifetime with you.  I remember it all. And I know exactly how long it takes for 20 years to pass.

As your mother, I need to know you are making the most of it.  It will go by so fast and I don’t want you to take it for granted.  You still have plenty of time.  If you take advantage of it. 

Don’t short change yourself, Greta.  Please.

I was having a rough time this morning. 

Any morning that starts out with a home invasion perpetrated by something with wings, antennae and a stinger is just not going to be a good morning (in my tiny bathroom with the door closed while I am brushing my teeth, no less).  Jay did his duty as man of the house and killed the intruder.  (The little bastard stung both Sawyer and the nanny yesterday.  I didn’t feel too sorry for him while the bug spray killed him, just so you know.) I don’t like bugs, flying or otherwise, with a special hatred and dread of roaches (a big thanks to Stephen King and Creepshow’s “They’re Creeping Up on You!” for that). 

Generally speaking, though, I don’t mind critters.  They are skittish of me and I of them and that is fine.  It also means that they (and I) keep our distances.  We may both live in the North Georgia woods, but I would rather catch a glimpse of them, not come face to face.  (Besides, if I had a Carrie Bradshaw hissy fit every time I saw a squirrel, I wouldn’t be able to walk out my front door.  And, let’s face it, I am from South Alabama.  We don’t have hissy fits over critters down here, so man up, city girls!)

As a matter of fact, Jay has taken to feeding the many, many birds we have living in and surrounding our yard.  We have found evidence of egg hatchings of at least one robin’s egg and another more generic little white egg (at least I hope they hatched instead of being some other critter’s dinner – says the woman who has a boiled egg for breakfast everyday).  I hear them all the time and love it.  I also love the evening light show the fireflies put on every evening. 

So this morning after Jay had rid our house of the stinging little bastard, he noticed a rabbit in the front yard.  He picked Ezra up so he could see it out the kitchen window.  It was cute. Ezra was impressed with the rabbit’s speed (of course – that child is going to be hell on wheels at 17, I’m afraid).  We had a little discussion about wild animals and how they are scared of us and can bite, etc., and how they run too fast for us to catch because they are scared of people.  Yes, all people, not just bad people.

I have probably mentioned that Ezra is a talker.  He also has a wonderful four-year-old’s imagination.  So as frustrated as I was for the encroaching of wildlife into my otherwise pristine human home, I got over it and allowed Ezra to both educate and entertain me on our way to his school.

For a bit of background, you have to understand that Ezra occasionally mentions “my sister, Abby.” The problem with this is that Ezra only has one sister and her name is Greta (my daughter).  His father has no other children.  Ezra’s dad is not married, either, so I assumed months ago when this first came up that he had introduced Ezra to a new girlfriend.  I waited for Ezra’s dad to tell me about her, something he eventually always does with a new love interest. 

Not this time. When I finally asked Ezra’s dad about “my sister Abby,” he told me he had been meaning to ask me about it.  None of us have a clue who Ezra is talking about.  We don’t know an Abby, and there is certainly not one who is his sister.  It is a mystery because he insists he has been to her house.

And he brings her up all the time. At least once a week. 

Today after seeing that rabbit in the front yard Ezra told me a whole story on the way to school.

He said the rabbit was lost.  I thought Ezra meant from its rabbit family and tried to explain that it was probably a mommy or daddy rabbit out looking for food for his baby rabbits.  But no, Ezra did not like my idea. This was not a responsible bunny out foraging for his bunny family.

He had something better in mind. (I put the Beatles 1 album on the in background, because Ezra was obviously not in the mood to allow me to listen to Morning Joe today)

Ezra sits back and tells me that it is his rabbit that he had at his “sister Abby’s” house in a cage.  He used to feed it and pet it and hold it.  It was brown and could run really, really, really fast.  But one day it got out and got away and got lost.  And now it is at Mommy’s house in the yard.  But it is still lost. 

He then changed the subject to the fast trucks on the road and how they go faster than the rabbit – and faster than my car.  But Lightening McQueen is even faster. 

Then he talked about the rain and asked where the sun was.  I explained it was still there but the clouds with the rain falling out of them were in the way and we just could not see the sun. 

And then he surprised me even more by saying, “When the rain and water disappears, it is called vaporation.”

I was impressed.  I told him I didn’t know that he knew about evaporation.

Then he told me, “No, Mommy, let me teach you.  Say ‘Vap.’”


“Very good, Mommy.  Now say, ‘Oration.’”


“See, Mommy, ‘VAPoration.’ It means the rain is disappeared. Did I teach you, Mommy?”

Yes, Ezra, as a matter of fact you did.  Thank you.  I needed it.