Murder She Writes

[Sidenote... I managed to screw up the first attempt at a post this morning when I was re-editing it--and then my father-in-law went into the hospital and we ended up with a tension-filled day. He's not in major danger, but he suffers from advanced Alzheimer's and there were things going wrong and, well, stress. So please forgive me as I blog today... I'm putting up one of my favorite essays. If you've seen it on my site, I hope you won't mind the repeat. And there's a CONTEST below.]

~*~

Dear God, the stick turned blue…

by Toni McGee Causey

Dear God, Universe, or Elves (I am covering all bases, I cannot afford to be picky here):

The stick turned blue. I’m 19. And a half. The stick turned blue. I think my brains just leaked out of my ears because THE STICK TURNED BLUE. It cannot turn blue. I only had sex once. Okay, maybe twice. That’s in base 200. Or something. (Shut up, I am an English major, we’re not expected to know higher math.)

Is this like… trial-sies? Practice run? Just to see how good my adrenal system works because let me reassure you right now, IT WORKS JUST FINE, though I think my neighbors might need a hearing aid after all the shrieking died down.

Signed,
Seriously, you’re kidding, right?

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

This is pregnant? This can’t stand to move morning sickness bloated pasty can’t fit into anything anymore look like a whale and where the hell is my GLOWY feeling? What? Were you out of Deep Fried Crazy Hot for the highs this summer and thought you’d just go ahead and substitute Miserable Seventh Level Of Hades and thought I wouldn’t notice?

Signed,

So very not happy with you right now.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

It’s a boy. Two-and-a-half weeks overdue. GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT.

Signed,

Hate you and your shoes.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

HE CAN STAY IN, I swear, I will shut up, forever, please do not make me have to OHMYGODTHATHURT. If I die and there is a heaven, I am bringing a LEAD BASKETBALL and you’d better not bend over.

Signed,

Never having sex again, ever.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Wow. I just… wow. He’s perfect. Unbelievably perfect. And just… wow. Who knew?

Signed,

Okay, you’re forgiven.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, Or Elves:

Oh, damn. How am I supposed to know what to do? How am I not going to break him? I don’t know enough. Maybe when I’m forty. Or fifty. Maybe. I am so going to screw this up.

Signed,

What the hell were you thinking, trusting me?

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Um, I hate to mention this, but there is one SERIOUS flaw in your design here. WHERE IS THE OFF SWITCH? I’d like to be able to shower, five minutes. Five. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Signed,

So bringing my stinky self to your doorstep in about three seconds if you don’t FIX THIS.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

My husband came home and heard me arguing with our two-year-old and took me aside and said, “You’re the adult. You have to outsmart him.”

The sad thing is, I’M TRYING TO.

Signed,

Send brains. Quick.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Okay, I get the whole “have sex, can get pregnant” thing, you can’t fool me. And okay, I’m not wholly surprised that I look like I ate an entire football stadium, but they just told me they expect this one to be over nine pounds. NINE. That’s like giving birth to a TWO MONTH OLD. WITH TEETH. Why not just go ahead and shoehorn in a COLLEGE GRADUATE while you’re at it. Maybe you’ve got a couple of missing OCEAN LINERS from the Bermuda triangle you don’t know what to do with; you can just SHOVE THEM IN MY UTERUS, I DON’T MIND.

Signed,

I hope your hair falls out.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

That was really freaking EVIL of you, playing that “cutest kid on the planet” card, twice in a row. It gets easy after this, right?

Signed,

Delirious.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Look, I know you’re really busy with all that famine and war and mythical alternate universe of Reaganomics and Wham!, but if you could just take a couple of seconds out of your busy schedule? Because my kids are infected with the HE’S TOUCHING ME HE’S LOOKING AT MY STUFF OH WOE!!!! disease. How much trouble will I be in if I duct tape them together?

Signed,

Duct Tape On Sale Now

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

He’s never going to forgive me for wrapping him in multiple rolls of aluminum foil to turn him into the Tin Man for Halloween, is he? Or the eighteen blocks I made him walk (while re-wrapping him) because we were going to trick-or-treat and we were going to BY GOD HAVE FUN, DAMMIT. I’m still going to hear about this when he’s twenty-five, aren’t I?

Signed,

Seriously thought about tying the bathroom rug around him for “lion fur”–he doesn’t know how lucky he is.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

They are sticking a needle in my four-year-old’s back. A needle. They are holding him down in the other room, and he is screaming. They made me leave, because he was lunging for me and he’s supposed to be absolutely still.

I just sat across from one of my childhood friends. She’s our pediatrician now, and one of the smartest people on the planet. We made mud pies together when we were five and six years old. We even managed to sell them (well, she did, she is that smart).

I never dreamed I would be sitting across from her one day and that she would have to say, “meningitis.” That the words “risks” and “death” and “possible brain damage” and “spinal tap” and “could paralyze him” would float, jumbled, over the space between us, that we’d ever talk about the fact that she had to stick a needle in my son’s back. A pediatric emergency.

She is sending me to the ER. I’m carrying him (passed out), while my oldest son is clutching his brother’s spinal fluids in some sort of glass flask, and I’m supposed to drive to the ER, because we do not have time for an ambulance.

She said to try not to stop for red lights. I CANNOT BREATHE right now, and there is no oxygen going to my brain and I CANNOT STOP FOR RED LIGHTS.

I don’t care what it takes, do it to me, not him. I will give you anything. I will give you everything. Just do not do this.

Signed,

begging.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Four days later, and his brother and he are making a slide out of the hospital bed’s mattress.

It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Signed,

thank you.

(your hair grew back in nicely, by the way)

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

The oldest is fifteen, and in this state, he can legally drive. HAVE YOU FREAKING LOST CONTROL OF THE UNIVERSE, OR WHAT? How in the world am I supposed to let him drive? I can barely keep from hurling myself in his path to keep him safe while he’s WALKING AROUND, BREATHING AIR, dammit. I have tried to remember that they are supposed to grow up to be independent, strong men. I have tried to remember to reinforce their decision-making skills. But this is just asking TOO DAMNED MUCH. It’s too soon.

Signed,

Where is the time machine?

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

ANY PHONE CALL THAT STARTS WITH “Mom, I’m okay, DON’T WORRY,” is NOT GOING TO BE GOOD, I don’t care HOW earnest you make them sound.

Signed,

Like I am that easily fooled. Ha.

~*~

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

I sat on the floor in the hallway today where I could see into the door of each of their rooms. They are empty, now, of boy stuff. One is an exercise room, and one a guest bedroom.

I did not break them. I screwed up. A lot, sometimes. I got self absorbed and busy and short tempered. I lost confidence and lost my way, but I did not break them. I remember the smiles, the laughter, the tooth fairy, the Christmas mornings, the late night talks. There were baseball games, wrestling tournaments, graduations and hysterically funny meals. I remember tears and heartache and not knowing if just loving them more than breathing was going to be enough. I remember too many close calls where it seemed like it might not be. But they are funny and smart and good hearted men. They have (mostly) outgrown the HE’S TOUCHING ME HE’S LOOKING AT MY STUFF OH WOE!!!! disease, and so get along pretty amazingly well. They make me laugh and surprise me and are fascinating people. They are kind. They treat people well, and they not only love deeply, but they are loved deeply in return. They are both the kind of men who, if I just met them somewhere, I’d like them tremendously. They have started families. Wonderful women I’m so lucky to have in our family. A granddaughter (the most beautiful, happy baby in the world).

You did not tell me when you gave me that blue stick that you were giving me my heart. You did not tell me that you were giving me everything that mattered.

Dear God, the stick turned blue.

THANK YOU.

Signed,

toni, a mom.

~*~

To thank you for tuning in on a repeat day, all commenters are eligible for a $20 B&N, Borders or Amazon (US) gift certificate. Contest open through Friday, midnight CST. Winner announced on SUNDAY, so check back!

So tell me, what was the one crazy thing you did as a kid that your parents almost didn’t survive? (grin) C’mon… give me the wicked stuff.

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My four-year-old niece RubySue, LittleNiece’s big sister, is a very interesting child. I like to tell my sister she is payback for all the horrible things she did as a child. I can’t really REMEMBER her doing any horrible things, as she was a very shy and retiring child—and RubySue is not—but still, even at this advanced age, is it not a sibling’s job to torment their sisters and brothers?

The other night Grandma had RubySue and LittleNiece over to “visit” (read babysit) while my sister and her husband went to see their new grandbaby (my sister is younger than me. It’s the darn step-kids) and then go to a party. Now I believe I’ve mentioned my father’s addiction to Little House on the Prairie, which usually is not a detrimental thing for a normal child, but we are talking about RubySue here. Most children are imaginative, although by four they are usually able to distinguish their fantasies from reality. We aren’t so sure about RS. With her, they all sorta seem to meld together. And it doesn’t take much to get her going. She saw a picture of Dancing Daughter in her twirly green dress from last year’s Nutcracker performance, and that’s all it took to launch a 45-minute diatribe about her green dress and how it twirled, and how she danced on the stage, and all of her friends were there, but they were amazed at how well she danced and…. Well, you get the idea. ONE LOOK at the picture. That’s it. This year’s soldier costume didn’t impress her much, though. There was no yarn-spinning after seeing THAT picture. She’ll have her fantasies with a side order of girlie, please.

Back to Little House. My father and RS were watching the show together, and on this particular episode of Little House, there was a TWISTER. Not a twister, but a TWISTER. A TWISTER I’m telling you! A few minutes later, RubySue was hunkered down underneath the dining room table, hiding from the TWISTER that would be ripping through the house at any moment. No amount of coaxing would get her to come out. “I’m telling you, there’s a TWISTER coming,” she would reiterate, in a panicked voice, every time we tried to coax her out. “You people better get down here.” When the expected TWISTER did not materialize, she calmed down a bit, and launched into an explanation. The TWISTER was busy landing on the witch, so that’s why it hadn’t hit our home yet. Evidently, my sister has let her watch the Wizard of Oz.

Grandma wanted her out from under the table, so she told her in a stern voice (unusual for Grandma) that there were no TWISTERS in Utah. “Well, there was that one that ripped through Utah a few years back,” I helpfully pointed out. I was NOT my mother’s favorite child at that point, because that was all it took. RubySue was STAYING under the table, to avoid the TWISTER. But then she started talking about Toto. Since Stormy the Wonder Dog was sitting not far from her, watching the child with curiosity in his big eyes, I thought she was pretending he was Toto. It is best not to assume anything with RubySue.

“Is that Toto?” I asked.

“No!” she answered, with the most scorn and derision a four-year-old can frost on the top layer of a sentence. “That is YOUR stupid dog. Not Toto. Toto is my dog.”

“RubySue,” Grandma said, even more sternly. “You need to be nice, and you do NOT have a dog.”

“I do TOO have a dog. I have five dogs. They live in my basement, and when I get home I am going to go down to see them. And they have clothes, too. Lots of clothes. Sweaters, and dresses and clothes. All kinds.”

Quite unlike Stormy the Wonder Dog, who only sports a Petsmart bandana. How UNCOOL is that? Poor deprived STWD.

“You do NOT have five dogs,” Grandma said.

“Yes I do. And they are in my basement, and I will see them when I get home.”

At this point, RubySue is still hunkered under the table, waiting for THE TWISTER.

My mother looked at me, and said, “That child needs to exist a little more in this world.”

I personally find her fascinating. She can spin a story like no other, and it’s not like she is lying. Somewhere, in some alternate RubySue Universe, there is probably a TWISTER about ready to strike, wiping out Laura and Mary Ingalls, and the Wicked Witch of the West, in one fell swoop. Maybe we could throw Barney the purple dinosaur in for good measure.

Lest you think my mother cruel and insensitive, she is not. She listens to HUNDREDS of these stories every time she has my niece, who by the way, is rather anti-social, does not look people in the eye (although she is getting better), and summarily throws anyone out of the family who does not please her. Instead of “Off with her head,” it’s “YOU ARE OUT OF MY FAMILY.”

When my sister was out of town, and RubySue was being particularly disagreeable to her grandmother who was caring for her–and she was also being a little turd to her other cousins, who were visiting–I took her up to her room, and sat her on her bed, letting her know in NO UNCERTAIN terms that she could OUT-OF-THE-FAMILY-me all she wanted, I was not giving in. She could either be nice, and speak nice to others, or sit in her room.

“No, I can’t. I can’t. There are DEMONS in here. DEMONS. Big black ones. And they took my family. I want my FAMILY back.”

I relented a little bit at this point, understanding that in RubySue’s world, some demons probably DID take off with her family, since her father and mother were in Washington, D.C., attending a memorial service for my brother-in-law’s brother. In her world, the demons DID mess with her routine and her whole life was in upheaval. But I told her that she had to be nice, and speak nice, to everyone, unless she wanted to go to bed. She did not want to go to bed. There were those big, black demons….

So she was somewhat agreeable for the rest of the evening. Except for the part where she explained how her uncle died in that motorcycle accident and his head popped RIGHT off. That didn’t bother me quite as much as it did my mother. I write suspense, remember? (Note: Her uncle did die in a horrible motorcycle accident, but I never heard anything about his head popping off.)

So, that’s RubySue. Writer in the making, or the next George A. Romero? You tell me. Anyone else have a relative, or child like this one?

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