Happy Friday, awesome readers!
And I already know it’s going to be a good day because according to my calendar, today is GOOD Friday.
PS. I have no idea what that means except that I think there’s chocolate involved and when chocolate is involved I don’t argue.
PPS. If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter you know that I’ve been up since the middle of the night so cannot be held responsible for anything that doesn’t make sense in this post. Not having to make sense is one of the perks to being an insomniac.
PPPS. Is it just me or does the word “insomniac” sound like it should mean something else – like someone who hides in backyards at night to make sure the garden gnomes aren’t eating their vegetables?
Alas, enough insomniacal ranting (see what I mean?). Let’s get on with the post, shall we?
I’m about to reveal something personal. And no it has nothing to do with sexual fantasies so if that’s your thing you can just run along now to some other site. And why are you even here???
For the rest of you, here’s the “something personal”:
My son and I don’t speak to each other. Not because we don’t want to but because we don’t have to.
Let me explain . . .
You know how after a while of knowing someone you come to a point where talking isn’t necessary . . . you just kind of have to point and grunt and everything is understood because you’ve been living together so long that you just know what each other is thinking or trying to say but can’t because their mouth is full?
Well last night at dinner I experienced that with my son. I had just taken a bite of our non-delicious meal when he stood up with his plate and I realized that he hadn’t had any salad. And since I’ve always taught my children to not talk with their mouths full of food and who am I to be a hypocrite, I pointed at the salad bowl and grunted the right number of syllables to mean, “eat some salad” – so yeah, exactly four grunts – and he sat back down and ate some salad.
While the mom part of me was happy to see her son eating vegetables, the communicator side of me was a little sad. I mean, is this what our communication skills have been reduced to?
And then I realized that should anyone ever break into our house and tie us up and gag us with duct while they ransacked our house, I would still be able to plan a getaway plan with my son because I would just have to grunt the right amount of syllables to say “as soon as they go upstairs you go get the scissors from the second drawer in the kitchen and I’ll get the keys to the car” and he would totally understand me.
PS. I think I just figured out how the circus psychics read each other’s minds.