Where the f*** are my keys????

March 31, 2011


If there is anything that sets my heart aflutter at a pace rivaled only by puppies, it is a newborn baby.

One of my students came by yesterday morning with her newborn son.

Not even a week old.

So tiny, so small.

Yet profound.

I removed him from his carrier contraption with a speed faster than that of sound.

Wrapped him in his absolutely adorable froggie festooned blanket.

And cuddled with him for almost an hour.

Heavenly.

In an instant, the papers that need marking, theses that need reading, emails that need answering, phones that won't stop ringing. . . .none of it mattered.

Because resting in my arms was a bundle of pure joy.

And he had my complete and utter attention.

All I wanted to do at that moment was stare into his little face, eyes shut in a sleep only babies can sleep, fist curled around my finger, me breathing deeply of his sweet baby scent.

Mer called during my baby-fest.

I asked her to have a baby so I could raise it.

A clear sign of the intoxicating power babies have over me.

Stephen called.

He was genuinely nervous when I told him a baby was cradled in my arms.

We have contemplated adoption.

Stephen will be 50 next week, and he's always insisted he's too old for a child.

Another child, that it.

Given how long it takes to adopt a child in this country, he could be 65 before we were blessed with a child.

And with university tuitions, doctoral tuitions, Meredyth, we simply don't have the funds for an overseas adoption.

I may have to resort to drastic measures.

Another dog, perhaps?






Stephen returned home after his one and only class yesterday.

He had errands to run. . .dropping off all our tax information.

And he needed to be home to let the repairman from Capital Safe and Lock in to repair the doorknob on the front door.

Stephen had been commenting on how he thought we needed to replace the doorknob.

It was loose in places it shouldn't be loose.

I so hate living with him when he's right.

Keith called Tuesday afternoon to inform me that in the process of using his key to get into the house, he broke the doorknob.

The details of how this breakage actually occured have not yet been shared with me, however, it did mean that Keith had to consider alternative methods of gaining entry into our humble abode.

I'm also a little fuzzy about how come he just couldn't unlock the deadbolt.

But for some reason he couldn't.

Dogs barking because they could see and hear him, but his physical presence was yet to materialize in the kitchen.

He did the only thing he could think of.

Another climb through the kitchen window.

Sans snowbanks to bar his illegal entry, I was certain one of our neighbours, the "Mayor" perhaps, would have called the police.

He must have put his binoculars in his other pants.

I emailed Stephen, who was at work, asking him to call me.

For some reason, I am unable to locate Stephen's office number and when we're together I forget to ask him for it.

Maybe when he reads this, he'll remember to give it to me.

Of course, Stephen was thrilled he was right.

And not thrilled over Keith's windowed entry.

Meaning he left work to "check things out."

And call the locksmith to arrange an appointment.

As usual, there was nothing worth driving home for.

But he will be who he is.

I'm just jealous that Keith can crawl through the kitchen window.

I couldn't get my head inside it, let alone the rest of my gloriousness.







My belief in the strength of the written word was further reinforced yesterday.

Stephen, once the door and crazed dog debacle had beeen sorted, decided to so some laundry.

Two sets of sheets needed to be washed, and when he called me to confer, I suggested that he put the sheets on the clothesline.

"WHAT?" he exclaimed.

"I don't have time to put laundry on the line."

"I have exams to mark!"

Ever tool I had in my arsenal was pulled out, including the "we'll save money not using the dryer."

He wouldn't budge.

So I left it.

He was clearly suffering the post traumatic-ness of trying to keep Frankie calm in the maelstrom created by the visiting locksmith.

I had so much to do and no car to drive home and hang them up myself, something I would have completely done without question, so as I was between a rock (Stephen) and his iron clad will, I acquiesed.

This time.

Seemingly.

But appearances can be deceiving.

45 minutes later, he called me.

"Well, Miss Blogger, I've decided to hang out the sheets after reading your blog. And you're granny panties."

My response:

"Let my flag size, multi-colored panties dry in the refreshing spring breeze, blowing away all the cobwebs and dust that have accumlated over the winter. PLEASE!"

He should know better than to shame the shameless.

And challenge the power of the written word.



Title Lyric: Ode to a Locksmith by Type O Negative.