I like to know that the birthday cake is covered in trick candles that won’t blow out before I waste a wish. Just wait, Mom. I’ve waited 45 years for revenge. I’m pretending to forgive you so they’ll let me in heaven.
I like to know that the place we’re going for dinner has a dress code so I won’t wear the pants with the heart-shaped ink stain in the middle of the rear view.
I like to know before the haircut that I’m not going to look like I have the Miley Cyrus teddy bear do. That’s why I’ve kept the same stylist for 30 years. She knows how to disguise any uh-oh moments I’ve created. My superpower is creating uh-oh moments.
But we can’t always know what’s waiting for us.
When I got home for lunch today, there was a long and winding trail.
Of toilet paper.
It stretched from a toilet paper puddle on the bathroom floor, down the hall, and into the room of the Second Son. Like a yellow brick road. Except made of toilet paper.
I forgot what it’s like to have a baby in the house.
At quarter past menopause that is a surprise indeed.
But my kids were raised by a mom who took in so many strays that her signature scent is Labrador accented with topnotes of tabby.
So when a pitiful mewing sound drifted through his window not long ago, Son the Second presented me with a bedraggled grandkitten who promptly overthrew the Labrador regime and established domination over her minions. And nothing was safe.
Especially the toilet paper.
|This sink is protected by Danger Cat.|
And in a home that’s seen two boys, a cache of cousins, a brace of neighborhood kids, and enough stray animals to create our own animal planet, it wasn’t really a surprise after all.