Four conversations I had yesterday.
With Kallan . . .
Kallan comes to me to show me that if she squeezes the long jagged scab on her elbow, a little bit of clear liquid oozes out.
“You want a Band-aid?”
She holds her elbow high and twists her skin to try to get a better look at it, “No, I’m fine. What I want to know is . . . How much trouble would I get in if I wiped some scab juice on Maj?”
“Seriously? So much trouble. So much.”
“What if it was an accident?”
“OK, because we have had this talk? There is NO WAY for this to now happen accidentally. Got that?”
With Maj . . .
“Maj, lie down so I can give you a kiss goodnight. What are you doing?”
Maj is wrestling a large purple body pillow with which she sleeps, “I think I may try this pillow on the other side of the bed tonight. I might hate it, but I am going to give it a try.”
She settles in and I pull the covers up over her and her newly positioned purple pillow, “Mother, what if I hate the pillow here?”
“Really, Maj? Just move it back to the other side.”
“But then my covers will get all messed up.”
“I’ll be back in to check on you in an hour. Leave the pillow where it is for an hour. We’ll talk then.”
“So if I need to put the pillow back to the other side, you’ll give me a fix?”
“A blanket fix. If I need to move the pillow, I am going to need my blankets fixed again. I like how you do it. So do you promise me a fix?”
“Yes, Maj. I will give you a fix.”
“OK, because I think I am going to need a fix.”
“Maybe you’ll like the pillow on this side. Give it a chance.”
I turn to walk out of the room, and she calls after me, “I am living on the edge, Mother! I am a girl with things as they do not belong! I am on the edge!”
“Yes, Maj. You are all kinds of edgy.”
I shut her door.
“Come back in an hour! I am pretty sure I am going to need a fix!”
With myself . . .
Oh for god’s sake. If I am going to be awake and staring at the ceiling, I should at least be spending this time thinking about something other than the fact that I am awake. I am the most boring insomniac ever. Let’s see . . . there must be something in this brain I can obsess about. We need dog food. What else . . . seriously? Why the fuck am I awake if I have nothing to think about? This is what it will be like when I am old and senile . . . awake until I die with nothing to think about. Oh, good job Kris. Because thinking about being old and senile and mush-brained is all restful and soothing. What was the name of that show about the senile mother and her son? Mother and Son! Yay! I am not senile after all. That was an awesome show. Why am I awake? Wait. Do I have to pee?
With Mark . . .
“Go to sleep.”
“Oh, I so should have thought of that. I will get right on that.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Australian sitcoms about dementia, the fact that I am too boring to be awake, and urine.”
“You need to go to sleep. Want me to hypnotize you to sleep?”
“Really? If this turns out to be a skill you actually have, I am going to be annoyed that this is the first I am hearing about it.”
“Just be quiet and listen. I will hypnotize you.”
“OK, babe. Go.”
“That is not hypnotizing, babe. That’s being a ghost. Ghosts are not known for their sleep-inducing powers.”
And then I did have to pee.