If My Hand Could Talk
WAIT. Say it ain’t so! Oh, but HOLYGREENFACEDCHILD….NOOOOOO. Gross. Toilets are for catching that kind of thing. Not me.
“I love the feeling of his tiny hand in mine. Aw, buddy, have a little thumb caress.”
I’m tired of typing! Ugh! Don’t you think you’ve been on your computer long enough tonight? I swear, if you give me carpal tunnel…who cares if you have a Momicillin story due? Start treating me right or I’m leaving. And taking arm with me.
“I know what you need! A manicure! Yes! Someone to give me a massage and make my nails look half-decent and not like the nail-bitten crazy hand I’m beginning to resemble. Do you want to have a crazy hand? I didn’t think so.”
Put a glove on, would you? It’s freezing out here! How come the kids get gloves but I get jack?
“You know, every time you do the dishes, I look a little bit older. What? Do you want your mom’s hands? That’s what dishwashers and husbands are for. Actually, I think we should talk about you getting a maid.”
Her hair is so soft - the knots and morning untangling ritual I could do without- but what silky beautiful hair through my fingers.
“Whatever happened to that automatic litter box, the one that prevented me from having to do menial scoop work? Remember the good old days when you were pregnant and I didn’t have to do any litter box work? Maybe you should have another little one. But, really, that cat doesn’t add anything to this household except more dirty work for me. Beast.”
Hey! Wait! Hold up! I know that expression! He either took too large of a bite or doesn’t like what he’s tasting. He’s only coming up to you for one reason: he’s going to spit out the contents of his mouth into me! Stop! Stop lifting me up to his….NOOOOOOO. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I’m going to be ill now.
