Sunday, September 6, 2009

I Blame Genetics

Mike is in Detroit right now at a jazz festival. I'm sure said festival has some sort of official moniker but, if my brain was a whiteboard, the portion where jazz info should go would be the part where someone used an inappropriate cleaner and now the marker ink doesnt stick. Which is odd because I've been married to a jazz expert for 13 years now. I do know that Charles Mingus had a cat that could poop in a toliet. Or was that Thelonius Monk?

ANYhow, Mike is off in some jazz version of hog heaven until Tuesday morning and its been just me and the boy since Friday morning. And I've got to say, not to jinx it or anything, but Donovan has been a very good boy. Yeah, there have been some whiny bits and some civil disobedience Hell-No-I-Won't-Go-Upstairs sort of tussles but all in all he's been a joy to hang with. Its sad to think that I may be benefitting from the fact he misses Mike. I'm guessing that's whats been going on because he's been super affectionate--very clingy, lots of kisses. My favorite thing is that, when I'm holding him, he'll put his hands on either side of my face, look into my eyes and then very slowly muss up my hair. This usually happens when we're waiting for the bus. Luckily, motherhood has severely curtailed how much I actually care about what I look like in public.

Earlier today I was skimming the Sunday paper while Donovan played around on the piano. I got this feeling that he wanted me to look at him. When I did, he had this big smile on his face and then he very excitedly played the piano. With the side of his head. Of course, the more I laughed, the more he did it with that same damn smile on his face.

My kid is a nutjob and somewhere, out in the aether, my Dad and various generations of Benfords are giving each other Attaboys.

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