Wouldn't that be a great, by which I mean awful, title for a fantasy novel? I think I'll write it, once I get done with the current (ha) one (ha ha). Which I did write almost 5000 words on yesterday, so shut up. (My new Cunning Plan: finish a book, sell it, make money from it, then be a stay-at-home mommy and spend some time doing genu-wine kid stuff, which sounds wonderfully tempting right now but would probably drive me crazy about three weeks into the actual endeavor).
It's been a rough few weeks here at Chez Newman, as I think I just typed in an e-mail to a recently-made-former colleague. Job loss, rain rain rain, Jim being asked not to come in yesterday because there weren't enough reservations to justify the presence of so many employees, a complete & total embargo on anyone ever calling me back about any job ever, and then as a capper I had to go watch 28 Days Later and Pan's Labyrinth in fairly rapid and entirely depressing succession. So now there are visions of Rage-infested Spanish Fascist soldiers dancing like so many blood-leaking sugarplums in my head. And I am sitting in a cafe working on a laptop computer with no functional battery and a keyboard that transmits signals about 4 seconds after I actually press the key, and there is an old deafish lady at the next table screaming "Memoir! MEMOIR!!" at her old deafish husband, which is a tiny shred of fabulousness in an otherwise grim outlook.
And now, an anecdote.
The place: Fisher & Rhys' bedroom, last night around 11 o'clock. (Bedtime, schmedtime.)
The situation: both boys are tucked into bed; Fisher is sobbing loudly, having just recently fallen down the stairs, barked his shin and gotten scolded for yelling "GET ME A F*CKING JACKHAMMER NOW!" at me. (Get it? Jackhammer... so he can destroy the offending stairs? Get it?)
Rhys (holding Fisher's baby doll out to Fisher): Look, Fisher, it's Dr. Fraaaanklin... coming to fix you up and make you all beeeeetter! (makes tickling motions with baby doll) Tickle, tickle, tickle!
Me: Rhys, I don't know if that's the wisest thing to do when you're sitting next to someone with that much clobbering power. (N.B.: "Clobbering power" is said in a sort of faux-monster truck announcer voice... think "Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!!")
Fisher: (sobs degenerate into throaty howls, from which he will not be dissuaded, and so he continues to hide under the covers and cry while the rest of us "tell the day," i.e., share our favorite parts of the day with each other)
Me: (rubbing Fisher's back) Sweetie, are you sad because your leg really hurts?
Fisher: No, because you said a mean thing... you said I have pummeling power and I DON'T WANT PUMMELING POWER!
Me: (massive maternal guilt wave) Oh, Sweetie, I'm sorry... I know you've been trying really hard lately not to pummel anyone.
Fisher (face pushed into pillow): I have! I've been trying so hard!
So after some reassurances and my warm glow that Fisher is apparently disavowing all forms of violence... yeah, like half an hour later I was back in there making Fisher stop forcing Rhys' face into the mattress while Rhys squeaked in terror. Pummeling, no... smothering, yes, apparently. Sigh.
Also, what should my parents name this concrete-colored cat who appears to have adopted them?