I don’t know how you spent your last few minutes of awake time last night, but I’m reasonably certain they weren’t squandered discussing the merits of Gordon Lightfoot.? Me?? Not so lucky.?
Here’s how it happened: Hubby and I are getting ready? for bed, and at a decent hour for a change. Not that we’ve been up partying and closing down the bars lately.? But in our baby-driven lives, even eleven o’clock is pushing it.
Just as I’m fluffing my pillow and channeling Doris Day by pulling on my pink satin mask (it was cheaper than black-out shades), disaster strikes.? Because instead of the hum of our white-noise maker (okay, so it’s really just a humidifier sans filter and water–call me MacGyver)? I hear hubby’s voice.?
The talking is? brief enough at first—a few questions about facebook and linkedin, and who he’s reconnected with so far.? Then, mysteriously,? the topic? jumps from old college friends to Phish concerts to, of all things, Gordon Lightfoot.? No, I really have no idea how that’s possible, either.? But those kind of? random neuron firings? happen all too frequently around here.? Maybe it’s the 60′s coming back to haunt me.? Which is mildly perplexing, since I wasn’t born until the 70′s.
Of course, then? hubby? has to look good old Gordon up on the computer.? I mean, how could? one possibly? be expected to ever sleep again until they were reminded of which songs he sang,? songs that most likely held the talent and longevity of a Milli Vanilli number?? So hubby grabs his handy-dandy laptop, only it’s not so handy-dandy because the battery is shot so it always requires a plug, as does mine, come to think of it, and then we’re in business.?
I was pleasantly surprised to? discover that Mr. Lightfoot actually sang some pretty good stuff, including Sundown and If You Could Read My Mind.? So, after wasting even more precious snoozing time listening to samples of his music, then looking up the lyrics to Sundown (what did he say in that line about “sneaking” again?), we finally settle in for bed.
And it’s still only 10: 20 pm, so we’re in good shape. Until hubby starts in with some Connor-isms from earlier that evening.? How this relates to Gordon Lightfoot, I have no idea—hence the emphasis on random neuron firings.? Apparently, my son was having a little chat about swear words.? Connor told hubby that he could start? using some? bad words? when he turned? five.? When my hubby inquired which words those might be, Connor says, “Stupid.”?
Upon hearing that, hubby heaved a sigh of relief, which was short-lived.? “…And f*ck,”? Connor continues, disingenuously.
? I wasn’t there, so I can only imagine the sound of my husband’s jaw slamming onto the concrete and his eyes popping out of his sockets and flying across the garage.? I mean, hubby and I have been known to utter the occasional “butt-munch” or “fart-knocker” at home (and yes, maybe I’ve? spewed forth with? “jackass” a few times while driving), but our profanity pretty much stops there.? But Connor has bionic ears, so who knows.
Hubby said it took him a moment, but he finally came up with, “No, that one’s not okay until you’re at least eighteen.”
Connor apparently thought about it for a moment, then smiled and said, “Or ten.”
After that, of course, all bets for sleep are off, as I’m left pondering how I’m going to convince my son that the “f” word is only legal for use once you’ve reaching voting age.
And I still don’t get what any of this has to do with Gordon Lightfoot.
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