So All Day

I have been sucked into this singularly hideous reality show called
"Wife Swap." Where people switch wives for two weeks and for
the first week the wife has to follow the rules set forth for the
household by the "old" wife and then the next week she gets to run
the family by HER rules, and hopefully everyone involved learns
some new, albeit sometimes unpleasant, truths abouth themselves.

*Note - the new wife does not share the marital bed with the new
husband, although in my opinion, that would make the show a lot
more exciting.

So anyway, although this is THE EPITOME of trash tv at its finest,
and folks, THAT is saying a LOT, I was touched a moment ago by
two women, each crying as they read each other's "how to" manuals
and reflecting upon the essence of time and how quickly it slips by
as regards one's family and the amount of time we each have to
spend with our children as they grow up.

And absurdly perhaps, I too began to cry, and flashed upon a ritual
from Dylan's childhood. When he was little, I had read a book
to him for Christmas called "The Littlest Angel," which many of
you have probably also read.

And when I got to the end of the story the first time I read it to
him when he was younger, I tried but was unable to keep from
crying when I got to the ending. He was DELIGHTED. Every
year at Christmas after that he would HOUND me to read that
damn book because he just knew that it would set me off when
I got to the end and every year I would groan when he brought
it over and I would try as hard as I could not to let it get to me
but it never fucking failed. He did that on purpose you under-
stand. He waited in eager anticipation for the moment in the
book where mommy would cry. It was like the Christmas Pav-
lovian Mommy Book.

So today I wondered if he remembered that. Not only did he
remember. He pulled it out from behind his back. It is NOT
CHRISTMAS YET.