Surrender, Dorothy

The Kid Who Got Off the Bus

Friday was the last day of school for my school district. I happened to find myself behind the bus for the middle schoolers on its last trip home.

As I hovered behind it, anxious about all the things I needed to get done before the end of the day, a boy got off. He whipped around the front of the bus and stood in his driveway, watching it leave.

And as it pulled away, he threw his backpack on the ground and started dancing.

What She Would Rather Do Than Go to the Dentist

The little angel pulled the shower curtain closed so I couldn't see her in the bathtub. Her voice held a very firm edge, the one she'll use when she's in upper management, I'm sure.

"I DO NOT WANT TO GO TO THE DENTIST."

"I understand that. I don't particularly like going to the dentist, either. But if you don't go, all your teeth will fall out."

"I WOULD RATHER LOSE ALL MY BOOKS THAN GO TO THE DENTIST."

"You have to go to the dentist."

Splash. Something that sounded like a bar of soap bounced off the tile.

"I WOULD RATHER HAVE TO LEAVE MY FAMILY AND LIVE IN THE FREEZING COLD WITH PENGUINS THAN GO TO THE DENTIST."

"I WOULD RATHER BE SUNBURNED ALL OVER MY ENTIRE BODY THAN GO TO THE DENTIST."

"I WOULD RATHER NOT HAVE ANY FOOD FOR A YEAR THAN GO TO THE DENTIST."

At this point, I was shaking with the exertion of trying not to laugh out loud and extremely grateful she'd closed the shower curtain. My stomach hurt from containing the giggles threatening to totally blow my cover.

"ARE YOU LISTENING?"

 

"Yes. But you still have to go to the dentist."

"OR ALL MY TEETH WILL FALL OUT."

"Right."

"THEN I WILL GET DENTURES."

I whipped the shower curtain open. She was laying on her stomach, glowering in righteous indignation up at me. Or as much righteous indignation as you can muster when your hair is clipped to the top of your head in two places.

"Child, WHO DO YOU THINK MAKES THE DENTURES?"

 

---

Tonight there's a free happy hour at The Writer's Place, 3607 Pennsylvania in Kansas City (on Pennsylvania behind the Uptown) from 6-8 pm. Free beer and nachos and the chance to hear about all the programming and perks of The Writers Place with a side of peer pressure from me to become a member. (Which is totally not required in order to schmooze with writers and drink our beer.) Door prizes! Win books, Spin! Pizza gift cards and more. Thanks to Muncharoo, Chelly's Cafe, KC Hopps and Spin! for their generous donations to feed starving artists.

Twitter and the Tornado

I picked the little angel up from school early yesterday because I thought there would be extreme weather, and I was paranoid after the decimation of Joplin.

The sun shone and the birdies sang.

Then there was today.

I was totally joking. And note to Rita: It's Wednesday.

I grabbed Petunia, my work laptop, my cell phone and my work notebook and shut myself in the only room with a door in the basement. And then my mind starting doing its anxiety thing.

I heard thunder and rain and sirens going on, shutting off, going on. I live in the eastern suburbs of Kansas City.

I pictured the little angel hunched in the basement at school, crying. I pictured not being able to get to her. I pictured every nightmare a mother can have. I felt so lonely.

And then they started pouring in: the tweets.

Finally the storm passed. Unfortunately, it took its toll on nearby Sedalia.

Even though I picked up the little angel early yesterday, even though we were two hours late this morning because of a dentist appointment, I asked.

And they made me feel better, normal even.

The sky was a mixture of puffy white, angry gray and brilliant blue as I drove to the school. Kind of like my mood.

"Were you scared?" I asked, as we walked to the car.

"A little."

"Did you cry?"

"No, I tried to be brave about it."

The teachers did skits for the kids during the hour and a half they were in the basement. And apparently gave them Pop-Tarts because they were stuck down there during lunch. I am so impressed by their ingenuity and grace under pressure keeping all those kids entertained for so long.

I came back and realized I'd left people hanging, these people I'd relied on so heavily over the past two hours. So I tweeted I was home with my girl.

All told, I probably talked to at least 25 different people today, some of whom I barely know. They distracted me and filled my heart with their good mojo. I didn't feel alone anymore.

Thank you, my friends. It's an amazing thing when you can have community alone in the dark.