Dear Kid,

This is the World’s Worst Poem about the ‘Quils (both Night and Day). If you squint, it mostly rhymes. There is pretty much nothing you can do to make it scan except pretend it’s free verse. Even then it’s pretty bad. I’m blaming my cold.

Ode to the ‘Quils

by Mom

I lie awake, my nose all stuffed
The tissue box has since been Puff’d
The garbage pail ain’t big enough(d)
Because I have A Cold.

The only thing to help me sleep
Throughout the night I’m in a heap
My snores like brontosauri creep
Being sick is getting old.

Then through the day, to stay awake
I prop my eyelids with a stake
And at my desk, the work I fake
Because having a cold is really no fun at all.

The chicken soup is mighty fine
And that is just how I will dine
It’s nice and hot and so sublime
At least I think it is because I can’t taste anything.

But chicken soup alone won’t do
And so I have to drink the goo
I’ll down it in a gulp or two
Because it tastes really bad with chicken soup.

Nothing in this goop tastes real
But who cares if it helps me heal
And “icky” matches how I feel
And I’d really rather be healthy at this point.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

You know what’s worse than your kid having a cold and not being around to bring the child chicken soup and Nyquil?

Being the child with a cold and no one bringing you chicken soup and Nyquil.

At the moment, I am that child.

To be fair, Dad bought the Nyquil. But I had to cook a chicken and then make my own soup.

While I am getting better, I still have a $#&$%!!!! cold.

Who would think one little nose could hold so much stuff?

Do you know what food tastes like with a cold? Neither do I. Because you pretty much can’t taste anything with a cold.

I am one whiney mamma.

What’s worse, I have no creativity. It’s gone. Used up. Probably all that creative energy is going toward new ways of being pathetic.

Fortunately, my cold is coming to an end.

I know this because grandma says that if a you get over a cold quickly it will take a week and half, but if it takes a long time it will last about 10 days. And I’m somewhere around Day 8.

Have you ever noticed that it’s really hard to count the number of days you’ve had a cold? You start out figuring that you’re just fighting a cold, then you lose the fight but you’re not sure if you should count the “fighting” days or not.

I’m going to take a nap.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

I’m back in an airport. This time Newark, NJ. I tell you this not because I think you will be jealous (although you are, right?) but because you should know I’m now engaged.

I got to the airport really early as I’d been warned about the horrors of waiting in liiiiiiiiiiine for Newark airport security. Also because I couldn’t sleep so it was a choice between hanging around the room watching homes I’ll never buy in Hawaii (HGTV really dangles some amazing things) or going to the airport and sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable seat.

It was a toss up.

Since I got to the airport 14 hours and 32 minutes before they were scheduled to board our plane, I breezed through security even though I didn’t have the handy dandy TSA precheck designation.

To clarify, I breezed through the part where they check ID. Despite my undercaffeinated state. I considered this an excellent omen.

Getting through the xray-security part was a little slower, but still NBD. I had to take off my shoes, but I’d cleverly worn boots that came off easily. No sweat. The TSA agent and I exchanged hair compliments as I waited for my stuff to go through the conveyor belt machine.

“Step right here, ma’am. Put your glasses on. On. Put your glasses on please.” Apparently, residing on top of my head is not “on.” I think I can be forgiven my confusion. “Put your hands over your head. Thank you.”

Machine noises.

“Please stand right there ma’am.” He pointed to a mat with two yellow footprints a few steps away from the machine.

Now, on the flight here, I set the scanner off and an agent felt up my left bicep before sending me on my way, so I didn’t worry.

This time was different.

The agent showed me the image. Basically everything except my eyelashes set off the machine. The image was a mass of yellow blocks. The agent explained she’d have to pat me down. Ok. She asked if I wanted a private room. (That should have been a clue about the up close and personal nature of what was about to happen.) Afterward, instead of offering me a cigarette, she swabbed her gloves and my hands to check for nasty residue. There wasn’t any.

I didn’t get a ring, but I’m pretty sure we’re engaged after that intimate an encounter.

Speculation from the agents standing around dropping ones onto the floor was that the sparkly threads in my sweater set off the alarms.

Good to know.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

My pillow and I must have had Some Kind of argument during the night because I woke up looking like Medusa–on steroids–this morning.

What is it about nocturnal hair-dos that guarantees the look of Hot Mess? Hair-dos that overnight become hair-don’ts.

Normally my hair and I get along overnight. I sleep fairly calmly, my hair does whatever hair does during the night, and a few brushstrokes later all is well with the world. Or at least my hair is somewhat presentable.

Not last night. I don’t have a clue what happened, but it wasn’t pretty. Certainly the after effects weren’t pretty. And it took about 700 hours to work out the snarls (none of which existed prior to bedtime).

I did not enjoy the undoing of the hair disaster.

So I’m going to try to sleep more sedately tonight.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Whatever you are doing, stop it.

Right now. Stop.

Unless you’re taking an exam, in which case why are you reading this?

Whatever you are doing can wait.

What can’t wait is backing up your computer files.

“What,” I hear you asking, “is making you say this in such strong terms at this particular moment in time?”

The black screen of death is making me say this, that’s what.

As in, there I was, typing happily, working away, enjoying a fine, sunny Sunday afternoon when … nothing. I looked at the screen. It did not look back. I said, “Huh?”

The Puppy looked up from his nap. The computer did not.

So I did the normal thing and pushed the power button.

On came the computer. Mind you, it had reset itself and I lost the last 17 minutes of work, but compared to losing a whole computer, it was ok. I was calm, peace was restored in the world. I went back to work and the Puppy went back to napping.

For 6 and a half minutes.

At which time the screen went dead blank again. Rinse and repeat, I thought. So I pushed the power button.

Nothing happened.

I tried again.

Nothing continued to happen.

So I did all the normal things a person does when a laptop is causing problems. You’d have been so proud of me–I did not freak out. I unplugged and replugged everything. I took out and reinstalled the battery. I did the chicken dance.

Nothing.

“Leave it alone for a bit.” said Dad. “Eat lunch. Then try.”

This did not seem like very good technical advice, but it seemed like excellent mid-day low blood sugar level advice.

And after lunch, magically, nothing continued to happen.

I remained calm, cool, and collected.

The power remained stubbornly off.

Dad tried to turn it on.

The power continued to remain stubbornly off.

“I hate to say this, kiddo,” Dad said to me, “but I think you’re going to need to take a drive.”

Of course, by “take a drive” he meant head to MicroCenter and part with major dollars.

I sighed and followed his advice.

At MicroCenter, I first went to the place where they help you figure things out, but they were busy Having A Seminar, so I headed out to the sales floor where I found a helpful person (and by helpful person I mean a 12 year old who spoke in ones and zeros but seemed able to tolerate me). “Do you know what this is?” I asked him holding out my bag.

“A bag with a computer in it?” he asked tentatively.

“A very expensive paperweight,” I said. I explained the situation. He politely asked to look at the computer. I handed it to him, and right there in broad daylight without surgical gloves or anything, he proceeded to take all of the laptop’s insides out. He then gave me a rundown of what I had, of which I understood not a word. “Huh?” I said going back to my reliable standby.

We looked at computers. I made a selection. All was good.

Except there were some files on the paperweight that I REALLY needed. “What about Carbonite?” you ask. Yeah, well, I’m not sure it’s running quite right. I’ve been meaning to call about that.

So I walked over to the We Can Help You With That Area.

I explained the entire situation to a guy in a Snoopy tie. He sympathized. He took the paperweight. He plugged it in. Nothing. He took out the battery and tried again. Voila! Power.

Well, I thought, if it’s as simple as all that, I can leave and get what I need in the comfort of my own home.

Home I went. I took out the battery. I plugged the machine in. I pressed the power button. Nothing. I tried repeatedly. I started teaching the Puppy new words that he probably shouldn’t repeat in public. Ab. So. Lutely Nothing.

Dad took his life in his hands and suggested I return to MicroCenter. (He was right; I just didn’t want to.)

After several minutes of quality whining, I took my stubborn self and my stubborn laptop and headed back.

Snoopy-tie guy had gone home for the day (sad face) but Other Dude was there. He plugged it in. He pushed the power button. And, lo, there was power. (What IS it with these guys??)

The Summary: My ancient and wobbly computer has been replaced. It is possible to get it to turn on if you place it gently on a table and mutter the correct voodoo. And have some luck. I’ve transferred the Incredibly Important Files to a flash drive. I have a new laptop.

And no humans were hurt in the process.

So go back up your Important Files so you too can remain calm in the face of a Death Defying Crisis.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

The human skeletal system is an amazing thing. You already knew that. And it takes a lot to break one of the bones in your body. You knew that too. Which clearly means that those who break bones must be extraordinary overachievers.

(One could point out that they should stop achieving so much but one is much more polite than that.)

Being the kind of mom that I am (you are so lucky), I am thoughtfully providing you with an advanced study guide regarding bones.

Q: What should you do if you think you’ve broken a bone?

A: Milk the situation for all it’s worth.

Q: What’s the biggest mistake you can make once you have a broken bone?

A: Do not repeat the action that caused you to break it—not even to demonstrate to medical professionals what happened. Because it will hurt.

Q: Which bone is the most painful if broken?

A: The one you just broke (obviously).

Q: How much does a broken bone cost?

A: That depends what you mean. If you are asking how much it costs to have someone break a bone for you, the answer is it happens all the time in movies and crime books, but I’ve never seen an add on Craig’s List for Bone Breaking—20% off.

If you mean how much does it cost to have a broken bone repaired, the short answer is A LOT. This is ‘Murica and we believe in charging for medical attention. The longer answer is it depends on your insurance (see: ‘Murica) and which bone you were clever enough to damage.

Q: How long will it take my broken bone to heal?

A: That depends. If it’s a bone in your foot it might already be your heel in which case you’ll need to be very careful talking to your medical provider. In general, you will be given the freedom to do whatever you want (medically speaking) one week after The Big Event you wanted to look great for.

In summary, try to leave your bones in tact.

Love, Mom