We lay sunggled in bed early morning.
Not my husband and I, obviously, but my older son and I. We spoke about not much.
The should-be -dead cat tried and failed to settle herself on our lumpy bodies and I lifted her gently and placed her on Steve’s still slumbering form. The transfer took.
A moment later she raised herself awkwardly onto bent legs shuddering with an unproductive hack cough and I wondered for about the 2,000th time if her quality of life was good enough to keep things going. I didn’t want to bum out Oliver before his school day so I reverted to the other kind of bum, my cheap trick of bathroom humor.
“Doesn’t it look like Lucy is going to poop on Dada’s chest.”
“Not as much as it looks like she is going to puke on his nuts.”
“I have to remember this, I told him” “Maybe I should put it on Facebook.”
“I’d just do Notabli, he said, it’s inappropriate to talk about private parts publicly. Thats why they are called private parts.”
In about 15 seconds he had trumped both my decorum and my lack of it. That’s what we want, right? Our kids to achieve more in life than we have?
But I showed him.
He never told me specifically not to blog about this. See, I am better at finding loopholes than he is. For now.