Middle Aged Treehouse

I'm only mature in years.

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

War of the Words

I never worry about my daughter starving to death as an out-of-work actor/singer someday. The way her brain works, any Madison Avenue agency would be crazy not to hire her for freelance ideas, words, and schemes.

Since Kate started driving last fall, I don't get too many opportunities to take her places in my van anymore. Fortunately, the trip to her guitar teacher is a dark, fast and poorly marked one, so she still allows me to chauffeur her this one night a week.

My creative daughter knows I have a fear of heights. Just peering over the railing at the second level at the mall makes my skin crawl. So whenever the road I drive elevates onto a huge, curving overpass, she starts with her so-called-wit.

"Wow, Mom! {gasp} Wouldja look down there?! Look how HIGH UP HERE we are right now! We must be at least three stories up here! It's so far down. Down, down, down, yes -- and only this pitiful little guardrail between your front tire and, well, you know. I can't believe HOW HIGH WE ARE!!!!"

But last night I was ready for her.

"Kate, did I see you biting your thumbnail about an hour ago? Why, yes, I'm sure I did. I sure hope with our three dogs and your little dwarf hamster -- oh, honey, when did you last clean that smelly cage? Before Christmas, right? Well, as I was saying, I certainly HOPE you don't get exposed to some kind of little worm. You know they're as common as dirt, and you know with all those critters, we have plenty of dirt coming in the house! It would just be horrible, wouldn't it, to have some kind of roundworm or pinworm or hookworm just CHURNING and TURNING inside your lower intenstine, just feeding off your tired little blood. Hey, didn't Sean have all three kinds of worms one time? But let's not think about that!

We called a description truce.

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