I stumbled across this picture today.

Really, what's not to love?

It’s The Clash’s Paul Simonon. And I was reminded of hearing “Should I Stay or Should I Go” on the radio when I was in the 2nd grade. The Clash, The Pretenders, Blondie, The Ramones, The Police…It almost seemed as if there was too much wonderful music to take it all in. But I did what I could and still am collecting tunes over the years. There’s newer blood: Foo Fighters, Cage The Elephant, Them Crooked Vultures, The Raconteurs. But how do we find out about the Next Big Thing in this post-modern music landscape devoid of the beautiful eclecticism of AM radio. Does FM even play music anymore or is it all conservative talk shows? And if you haven’t seen ’em live do you even know who you’re listening to? Discuss.

Him: What’s that thing on the counter that looks like a savings bond?

Me: That’s a refund check. We actually got one this year.

Him: So…what is it? Like $10?

Me: Enough to get that plane you wanted.

Him: Helicopter.

Me: What?

Him: Technically, it’s a helicopter.

Me: Whatever. Keep being a @#$% and I’ll go buy shoes.

If you’re in my inner circle, you know I’ve recently had a hysterectomy. Ok…let’s be honest. If you were behind the register or trapped in line with me at Target, Publix, or Any of my Usual Haunts, you may know I’ve recently had a hysterectomy. I’m a sharer — what can I say?

Things weren’t going well at week 6, but a change in tack has made for smoother sailing in weeks 7 and 8. BUT…it also means I’ve been really inactive for over 2 months. Inactive with unrestricted access to Easter Candy. You see where I’m going here? And I have to wear a swimsuit at the family beach trip in just under 3 weeks AND have pictures taken by a professional photographer. At this point, I don’t have a good side. Or a waistline for that matter. It’s depressing.

Also, I seem to be at a critical parenting point with one of the triplets. Suffice it to say that things are NOT easy right now. And I’m not at all sure I’m doing the right thing. I mean maybe I’m doing the right thing, but there’s really no way to know until he’s lived his entire life without a prison stint. I’m not sure I fully understood going in that once you’re a parent, there really is no “finish line,” just a constant evolution in what your children need/demand from you. It’s stressful.

To this depression and stress add a severe case of writer’s block. So severe, it’s also manifested as ‘reader’s block’ in that I don’t even have the attention span to read someone else’s work. At least that part has lightened up in the past few days, I’ve enjoyed reading an old favorite author, Georgette Heyer. Light, easy reading for the thinking impaired. And now, hopefully, I’ll start to see some of the little grey cells I use for writing wake up and return to service. But I wonder if I’ll always be crippled by the certainty that I’m a terrible writer and should confine myself to the random musings of this blog.

So there we are. This is the last Sunday I’m allowing myself a day off. Back to the regular routines from here on in. To my usual list of laundry, dinner, housework, I’m forcing a regular exercise and writing window. Hopefully the exercise will give my brain enough of a release that it will let go of some of the words it’s been hoarding. And if I should happen to see a waistline again, all the better.

“Mom! Mom! I kicked out Tom’s loose tooth!” Jack announced, the leader of a thundering herd of boys racing up the stairs.

“You did what?”

“Remember how he accidentally knocked mine out with the doorknob that time? Well I accidentally kicked his out while we were playing.”

“And now I get to put it under my Pillow!” Tom crowed. “Thanks, Jack!”

They stand beaming their gapped toothed grins at one another for a beat, then someone suggests Tom go look at the blood in the mirror. They gallop away, and their dad and I are left bewildered, wondering what, if anything, we are supposed to do about Jack having kicked Tom in the mouth hard enough to dislodge his already loose tooth. If both parties are thrilled, has there been a crime?

Tom has a loose tooth on his bottom row. This means soon Will and Sam will have loose teeth, too. Jack’s already sporting a snaggletoothed grin, so I suppose it was only a matter of time. Tom looks at the thin line of blood at the gum line in the mirror. He’s torn between horror and jubilation. He skips across the floor to show me his progress, then skips back to the bathroom to continue monitoring his progress in the mirror.

I’m not surprised he’s the first of the triplets to sprout a grown up tooth. Hardly anything surprises me about Tom any more. Something I’ve only shared in snippets is Tom’s tendency to race ahead on milestones, but since this is essentially a glorified baby book, I’m sharing these next few things so I’ll remember them years from now.

Tom is…smart. Really, really smart. Like learning-everything-Jack-is-learning-almost-as-fast-as-Jack-learns-it smart. I’ve re-read that sentence twice now, and it still doesn’t convey what I mean for it to. Everyone thinks their children are bright. I think all of mine are exceptional. But his dad and I actually refer to Tom as our “singularity” — meaning everything we think we’ve learned about child-rearing on the other three doesn’t seem to apply to Tom. Even more so than with the other three, we feel like we’re just making it up as we go along.

Last night, Tom was frustrated that Jack was having a turn with something he wanted. In an effort to distract him, and knowing how much he likes puzzles, I thought I’d see what he thought about simple algebra. When I wrote 2 + 3 = x, he died laughing. Literal belly laughing, as if I’d just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

“Mom! That’s 5, not x!”

I went on to explain that x was just pretending to be a number, and we had to find which number x was pretending to be. We worked a few more with me explaining as we went along. Finally, I summed up.

“See babe, it’s like a see-saw. The equal sign is the middle of the see-saw, and we have to make the other two sides balance.

“Oh, so it’s like measuring,” Tom said.

I was stumped. “How is it like measuring, babe?” I asked.

“Well, if the one side is too light it goes up, and if the other side is too heavy it goes down. Like me and Will.”

I grinned; it was a lot like weights and measures. “Right, Tom! You want both sides to be even — like when you and Jack see-saw.”

We talked about numbers for a while longer, then Tom ran off to play.

There’s no moral to this story. I just want to be sure I remember that moment, his laughing at x, and his satisfaction at finding the answers to every problem I posed.

If there’s anything I worry about, it’s failing to provide him with enough variety to keep him interested. Because he’s so much MORE than a calculator. His handwriting is gorgeous, he draws beautifully. His construction paper creations are frame-able. He can memorize long passages with very little effort, provided he can read them as well as hear them. And he LOVES to be the center of attention, so I’m thinking maybe drama would be a good idea. But I have NO CLUE how to even get started on something like that.

When you’re the parent, it often seems like you’re constantly being dropped in the center of uncharted territory. So that’s my job, I guess. To figure out what he might like, then blaze a trail to get him the opportunity. Sounds easy right?

Well it’s not. Not even a little. But I’m trying to stay relaxed. Hangin’ loose like Tom’s baby tooth, trusting I’ll find the right road at the right time.

If you are the mother of active boys who love to be outside as long as there is daylight to be had and caterpillars to be caught, be prepared that at some point you WILL be called upon to remove a tick from a little boy’s scrotum. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Anne Riley challenged me to go to page 7 or 77 of my latest manuscript and type the first 7 lines. I read through all my WIPs — of which there are many — and searched for one that was 7 pages long. There was only one, and I hated it. The idea that sparked it has long since died and I have no wish to pick up the thread again. BUT, Anne mentioned starting a new contemporary, and that kind of made ME want to attempt something contemporary. So THIS is what I wrote. It’s way more than 7 lines. But I think it’s kind of fun. If you’re a writer and you’re reading this. I challenge you to do the same. If you can follow the rules to the letter, more power to you. OR if you just want to share something to keep yourself from falling into the trap of hiding your light under a bushel, that’s cool, too! Here’s mine:

“Where’s your gun?” Nell demanded as she exploded through my front door. Without sparing a glance in my direction, she headed for my closet and began rifling through its contents.

“It’s in the bathtub right next to my pet alligator. You can’t miss it.” I took a final swig of my Mountain Dew and flipped another page in the trashy romance I’d been reading. Okay, it was less reading and more skimming for the good parts, but cut me some slack; it’s not easy being 28 and single.

“I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm, Christine. I’m in the mood for a gun,” she said, still ransacking my hall closet. My good coat – the one I found for $35 in the back room at Anthropologie – slipped from its hangar and landed in a heap. Nell ignored it. I tolerate a lot from my baby sister, but no one disrespects my wardrobe.

“Oh for pity’s sake, Nell, stop trashing my stuff. You know I don’t have a gun.”

With a shout of triumph, she emerged cradling a gift-wrapped box, its once-curly bow limp and flattened from its soujourn in the back of the closet.

“Yes, you do,” she assured me as she tore into the dusty paper. “I gave it to you for a housewarming gift.”

I rocketed out of my chair and across the room just in time to see her pull an enormous handgun from its nest of pink tissue paper.

“You said that was a box of cleaning supplies!”

“It is. Springfield XD, 9 millimeter — for all your toughest stains.

“Oh my God, Nell! You might have killed me!”

“Oh, relax. I wrapped the clip separately. And I knew if you thought it was cleaning supplies you’d never lay a finger on it.”

My mouth hung open for a beat as my brain tried to catch up with the unfolding events. First things first.

“Okay. For the record…insulting my housekeeping skills is a really low blow. But I’m going to let that slide, because right now I’m more freaked out that there’s a gun in my house, Nell. I real, live, shoot-people-dead kind of gun! What were you thinking?”

Nell picked the last scrap of tape off the clip — she really had wrapped it separately – and sighed. “Two things, Chrissie,” she began. “First of all, there’s been a gun in your house for the last six months and you slept like a baby. I really don’t see a need to get all weird about it now.”

She rammed the clip home with the heel of her hand like some sort of movie tough guy, and stood up. “Second, it’s coming with me, so just go back to your paperback and forget I was ever here.”

Nell shoved past me and headed out the door. But she wasn’t the only cop’s daughter in the room. And my Mountain Dew habit ensured that I had a good 15 pounds on her, easy. Before she could say boo, I had her on her stomach, one arm twisted behind her back and her gun hand pinned under my knee. Just like when we were kids. Well, with one notable exception.

I plucked the gun from her fingers and pressed the button that released the clip. It accidentally-on-purpose caught her square in the back of the head.

“Ow! Let me up, Christine!”

“Not until you say it,” I sing-songed.

“What? Say what?”

“You know what. Now say it.” I bounced a little as I straddled her back and heard her breath go out in a whoosh. I eased up a bit and she took a big gulp of air.

“Fine!! Christine Littletree is the best, most beautiful girl in the world!”

“And?”

“I don’t remember!”

I bounce once more.

“Aaah! And I will be her humble servant forever!”

I rolled off her and she scrambled to a sitting position across from me on the floor.

“Now then, my humble servant, you can start by telling me why you need a gun.”