I went to California for the weekend to honor a boy named Hank Mason, an incandescent being composed of spun sugar and baby Jesus, who completed his first year of sharing our earthly realm. In honor of his birthday, he learned to hover inches above the ground while granting beatific smiles to his adoring followers.
So much fun that I couldn't sit up straight or talk for the first couple of days home. Also I couldn't do anything but curse the day I chose to live on the East Coast. Why don't we all live in California? It's stupid here. Yesterday it was snowing, then sleeting, then raining. Then the temperature dropped and elves emerged from the bushes to buff the ice until all the sidewalks of the Northeast were smooth and deadly. The elves are out to kill us all, so they can live in our houses, and then sell our houses and move to California. The elves know what they're doing. Yes, I'm writing about imaginary elves. You see what New Jersey does to a person?
I'm finally alive today and my son is home from school. He left for school in a cheerful enough mood (once we wrestled with the application of the BOOTS OF DEATH and the MITTENS OF AGONY) but about an hour after he left, the school called. Is there anything more nerve-wracking than seeing your child's school on one's caller ID? No. Nothing more nerve-wracking. I am not exaggerating at all. His legs felt "wobbly," according to his teacher, and because several kids in his class have come down with the flu and they've all exhibited this mysterious symptom of leg-wobbliness, they were "concerned." Basically they wanted him out of there. I couldn't blame them. I wanted to, but I couldn't.
And now he's home. Home, and bouncing around. His wobbliness has disappeared as mysteriously as it arrived! It's a Valentine's Day miracle!