On the way home from school today, the car was very silent, missing the usual chatter of my boy who, I believe, is still feeling under the weather from his surfacing allergies. After about 8 minutes of quiet driving on the road, he burst out with a question that, clearly, he must have been pondering for quite a while:"Mommy, how does real chicken become food chicken?"
I admit that my first reaction was one of laughter -- I certainly never expected that kind of question to head my way. Thankfully Aidan beat me to the answer, having figured it out himself:
"Oh, I know ... the real chicken gets placed inside a special machine where it gets rolled around for a while. Then the real chicken parts disappear and it becomes food chicken. And it's delicious!"
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My entire family is giving the medical field a run for its money lately (or, probably more aptly put, they are taking our money and running with it ...). First my mom is targeted by cancer; then Aidan will pay a visit to a pediatric surgeon tomorrow. Oh, but that's not enough ... my dad spent a good chunk of the day first at his GP, trying to figure out why he's not feeling "quite right," and then they rush him off to his cardiologist for tests, causing some unexpected worry on our end. Thankfully they could find nothing wrong, other than the fact that he might have worked too hard last week for "a man his age." And now Don is on his way to his GP, trying to put an end to a month-long cough. Not to mention that school has started, and while children might not share toys very well, they sure do know how to share communicable diseases. Oh, the joy has begun ...
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I am always amazed that my children -- especially my boy -- can't seem to generate enough imagination on their own to play. OK, Grace is two so she's off the hook, but Aidan ... It seems as if, every minute of every hour, they need me ... they need my presence, they need my constant interaction , and if I grant them, say, 20 minutes of undivided attention, and then dare to move myself on to something I would like to do elsewhere, I can almost be assured that I will have a shadow within two minutes of my departure. That shadowing, that zeroing in on my personal-space-zone -- that's what can drive me crazy at times. This afternoon, after one particularly too-close-for-comfort shadowing moment, I said to Aidan, "Pllleeeaaasssee ... just find something to do and give me a few Mommy Minutes." That's a good one , if I do say so myself -- Mommy Minutes. Now if I can only find a way to make that stick ...
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It's 4:44 p.m. -- Don's on his way home from the doctor with a prescription for an allergy medication (seems as if that's causing the cough, which -- I will say -- falls into the category of "I told you so" but of course which also falls into the equally overstuffed category of unheeded spousely wisdom. Oh, how much money we could save if my loved ones just listened to my diagnoses!) and now it turns out that our insurance plan doesn't cover the medication he needs. Figures! Weren't we just through all this insurance-plan garbage with finding a doctor for Aidan? (Canada is looking pretty good right about now). I am "plum wore out." I wonder if I need to change my eating habits, and of course I know I have to start exercising again, all to start feeling more energetic and more like "myself" (whatever that is these days) ... or else maybe I'm just a 35 year old mother of two very energetic munchkins so being "wore out" is part of the bargain. It'll be an early night again tonight, substituting Lizzie Borden (a fascinating yet totally bizarre biography, by the way) with P.T. Barnum. I recently read "Water for Elephants," a fabulous and engaging piece of fiction set in the Depression-era on a circus train, giving a glimpse into a part of history that not many people might know about. Cool stuff. I think P.T. Barnum it is (sorry Stephen Foster -- your turn will come). During the Depression, people literally ran away to join the circus; tonight I might enjoy a little figurative circus-running myself ...
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