“Mom, you know how you have that extra bone in your body that you don’t really need or something? Well, H got his removed today.”
– my son, telling me about his friend’s appendicitis.
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From the monthly archives:
May 2013
Yesterday it rained in NYC. A lot. I don’t know how much exactly, but there were multiple raindrops.
Papa was picking up my son from school and they got soaked on the way back.
I know this because I got a text from my son saying that he and Ddude (short for Dedulya, the Russian affectionate term for grandfather) were soaked. Better you than me, suckers, I thought, sitting all Sahara-like indoors.
And then I got a terrifying text from my kid.
Ddude wants to know where your pants are.
I blinked, but the text still did not disappear.
“Maybe it’s an autocorrect issue and he was asking about plants,” my friend Betsy answered my Facebook lament. It’s like Betsy wasn’t raised by my Papa or something.
Because I, having had the privilege, knew exactly why he was asking.
Papa’s clothes had gotten wet and he wanted to change into my pants.
Let me repeat this: Papa wanted to wear a pair of pants that belong to me. A woman’s pair of pants. And I knew this to a certainly as a daughter whose father worn her clothes before knows.
Don’t get me wrong, Papa is not a cross-dresser. But he is very practical and does not believe in things like “boundaries”. If he needs a pair of pants or a pair of pink crocs, or t-shirt that just so happens to sport a Cindy Sherman “Your Body is a Battleground” silkscreen, why shouldn’t he borrow his daughter’s? And if he can’t find them, what’s wrong with having his grandson send a text to help the process along?
“Unfortunately” I didn’t “see” my son’s text until it was “too late”. And by then, Papa settled on a bathrobe instead. My husband’s, fortunately.
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