Stream of Consciousness

First, a confession: I copied and pasted the title of this post.

Yep, I went to Google and typed in "Stream of", knowing 

exactly what I wanted would pop up.  Let's face it - that

C word is a tough one for me to spell and I'm really lazy.

Moving on.

Today was a good day.  I met up with my new friends

(and Eliza's suitors) for lunch at Bin 14.  They run a 

pretty sweet deal for "moms". I wish they called it the

"People Who Need To Get Out and Socialize and 

Just So Happen to Have Babies" special but hell,

I would take advantage of it even if they called it 

"Cheap Eats for Gals Who Should Be Exercising".

We may have gotten screwed, however, because 

whereas we were told that the special was any pizza 

for $10, another chick wrote on an email chain that 

the special is ten bucks for anything on the menu.  Grr. 

Oh well, it probably worked out for the best,

considering that I have severe issues with options: 

I can NEVER decide when faced with many and 

once I do, I'm convinced that I made the wrong choice.

I navigate life best when operating within parameters.

How does this post relate to its title?  Well, it wasn't

meant to be a digression from my original thought, 

although that's what it's turned into.  No, I sat down

to write about something that streamed from thoughts

I had while reading my bloggy BFF's post today but

now I'm kinda written out and don't have the motivation

to fulfill that objective.  Plus, The Cheeks is making

little bappy sounds, which means she could start howling.

That's part of her new bedtime routine: we put her down 

around 7:30 (ok, so it's been more like 8:00 lately since I've 

been super lazy in the mornings and have pushed back 

her first feed in exchange for an extra hour of sleep. Yeah, 

yeah, before you go getting all "that's Babywiseabuse!" on 

me, just know that I still have to wake her for that feed

because my girl, like her father, enjoys a morning lie-in) 

and then within 30 minutes, she starts making bapping 

sounds (I love that word. I stole it from this and yes, you

must listen to Josh Ferris read it for full affect and yes, 

I tweaked its meaning to suit my needs). Her baps may

or may not lead to howls and the howls may or may not

lead to Matty stuffing her cheeks with a two ouncer.  

You never know with these little martians, do ya? It's 

"one of the many defects of their kind. Also, weak arms."

(anyone know where I stole that quote?) 

Crap. I keep digressing from my original idea, which

streamed from reading that Ash just read The Outsiders

for the first time. Now, I don't care what any of the

literati say - I freakin' love The Outsiders. Ponyboy and

I, well, we go way, way back.  I even dated Dally for a 

while, back in the day and hell, through them I met M&M ,

Mark and Bryon and yeah, it's real shitty what happened

to those boys, too (you can read about that here). 

During my early teaching years, I taught my own group 

of outsiders that, in an eerie way, paralleled the one Hinton 

created when she was 16, right down to a Socs-vs-Greasers 

style rumble (Varsity Jackets vs. Carharts) and the tragic

death of the group's "pet", who also died heroically in a 

horrific fire while trying to save the life of a girl whom he 

barely knew (who, sadly but not surprisingly, died, too). 

That's what I was thinking about writing about today

because that kid meant a hell of a lot to me. He would

appear in the doorway of my classroom after school

sometimes and I would invite him in, knowing he was

just going to sit there and silently shake his head yes

or no in response to my litany of questions meant

to verbally engage him.  One year at Christmastime,

we were dismissed early for snow and man, I can 

still remember how that day felt, like there was the 

light of promise in the sky. Anyway, I walked out

to my car that day and found a snow covered envelope 

scribbled with his handwriting placed on my windshield.

It was stuffed with a Currier and Ives style card and 

a homemade ceramic reindeer ornament that will 

always have a place of honor on my tree.

I think about him all the time, and about another boy

from that group, too, but their stories are for another

time because to tell them in winter when it's already

so dark and drab would be to do a disservice to my

own mental state and no doubt, to yours as well.

I'm not sure if I met my objective for this post but

if nothing else, I'll let its title serve as an introduction

 to an exercise in form and function. And on that note,

The Cheeks has stopped bapping so I'm going to 

go pour myself a glass of wine and enjoy some 

couch time with my husband, who has probably

been waiting, patiently, for me to move away 

from the Mac so he can get his hands on it.