The Monkeys that Flew out of my Butt

Gentle reader, I do urge you to sit down before proceeding with this post.

Seriously.





Have you found a seat?

Today, at 3:00 PM, I met with Binta's teacher for our annual parent teacher conference. As with last year, I invited Binta's dad to attend. Last year, he had said that he would come, and Binta's teacher even arranged a special time to meet with us that worked with his schedule.

He didn't show.

I did receive a phone call from him, though. Approximately 2 hours before our conference time. He explained that he was in Idaho.

IDAHO.

He didn't think he'd make it to the conference.

Ya think?


So. Fast forward to this year. As with last year, I made sure he knew what time the conference would be held. I reminded him several times. I placed bets that he would not attend. My guess was that this year, I'd get a call from Wyoming.

Are you still sitting down?

Ok. Not only did he show up for the conference, but he was 10 minutes early. Not only did he hang out afterwards to spend time with Binta, but he stayed until 7:30 so that he could watch her entire Tae Kwon Do class.

Now I've seen absolutely everything.

Meet Rocko

Imagine my disappointment.
A quick google search reveals 502 other blogger moms going on about how cute it is that their kid calls the President Elect "Rocko Bama."

Please tell me I don't sound as annoying as they do.

But how many of them have an actual rock? Hmm? Now whose kid is special?

Immacculate Conception

Binta: What was the baby's name? Gene?

Me: Jesus.

Binta: What was the mom's name?

Me: Mary

Binta: So Mary was married to God?

Me: No. Mary was married to Joseph.

Binta: So who was married to God?

Me: No one was married to God.

Binta: Then Joseph was the dad?

Me: No, God was the dad.

Binta: I thought you said God didn't have a wife! I'm confused!


I'm probably not the best person to explain this, 'cause I'm confused, too...

A Song

Amy regularly chooses a song to highlight in her blog. Most recently, she chose this one.

I remember holding the weight of the reality that my brother was dead. One day earlier, I had been immobile on the couch, shivering under a blanket and getting up to pee every 10 minutes. The effects of being in shock, I'm told.

A day later, I was sitting at the kitchen table, as we began planning out his memorial service. We pondered questions about what to have written for the newspaper statement, where to direct any donations, and what the details of the service might include. Mom was on the phone with a friend of Derek's.

Mom asked the friend to suggest any songs that Derek liked, that we could use during the service. The voice at the other end responded with a suggestion, and Mom looked at me and repeated the person's suggestion. "Bittersweet Symphony?" She hadn't heard of it, and wanted to know if I thought it was a good choice.

In my head, I heard myself say, "Yes, that's the perfect song." However, my voice wasn't teaming well with my body, and all I was able to respond with was nodding weakly as tears began streaming down my face.

Mom told the friend that I agreed with her suggestion, based on my reaction.

And it truly was the perfect song. First of all, Derek loved the song. He played it so loudly, I'd have to ask him to turn it down. He even found a way to program his cell phone (this was back before you could download ringtones) to play the opening notes of the song.

And later that day, when I looked at the lyrics I had printed from the internet, I discovered again that it was the perfect song. No, Derek didn't have a heroin addiction as the lyrics indicate, but the "you're a slave to money till you die" line seemed to fit so appropriately in Derek's case.

It will always be a song I associate with my brother.

Thanks for your post, Amy. I played it loudly.