I Bless the Rains Down In Africa 2.0

To celebrate my one year anniversary of writing for the fantastically hilarious www.sahmmy.com I am reposting the article was most fun for me to write. I added a few new bits and pieces for the occasion.


I Bless the Rains Down in Africa


“I loved traveling with my kids!” A business man next to me says as me and my two kids wait in line at airport security.
I look for signs of a stroke, but he seems to just be a fucking insane person. I smile and move along peeling my four year old Frankie off the stanchion pole. I take inventory for the hundredth time this morning. Diapers. Wipes. Snacks. Movies. My computer. Books. Coloring book. Crayons. CDs. Old Disc-man. Changes of clothes. Sippy cups. Child one. Child two. Got em. It’s my first solo trip with my love monsters and I’m a bit freaked. But I am as prepared as I can be. I can do this.
“ ‘Daddy’s gonna kill Ralphie’,” Frankie says to the woman behind us.
Frankie has been quoting A Christmas Story and singing Deck the Halls at the top of her lungs since we arrived to LAX. It’s March. I’m thinking this is her nervous tick. Zoe, my little zen Buddha baby, is cool as a cucumber.
We make it through security, our first hurdle, just fine. Except for the fact that it’s really hard to close up a stroller and lift it onto the conveyor belt of the x ray machine one handed while holding a 18 month old and everyone around you acts like they don’t see you struggling. I think it might be against policy for TSA workers to be courteous human beings.
We get to our gate armed with happy meals. The kids are... happy. Content. Staying in one place. Frankie downs her milk. Zoe eats all her food. This is going well!
“Okay, time for the bathroom stop before we get on the plane,” I announce. Frankie scrunches up her face momentarily, but then gives in.
“Okay!” She says.
We go to the bathroom, cram ourselves, stroller and all, into the handicapped stall and she sees the toilet.
“NO!!!!! It’s the magical potty!” She screams.
Fuck.
Ever since she used one of those automatic flushing toilets, she is deathly afraid of them. I don’t blame her. They sound like jet engines and seem to have the vacuum power of a black hole.
But I have an idea. We go to the family bathroom. Perfect. There’s a little potty just like the one at her preschool. This is where things really go to shit. I am in a full on wrestling match with a four year old forcing her pants down and trying to make her pee. I scream. I beg. I plead. Nothing. Zoe looks on amused. I even call Papa, “MAKE HER GO!”
He helplessly talks to her, but there’s no use. The public bathroom is not happening. I take a deep breath. Okay, let it go. When she’s got to go. She’ll go.
We board the plane after waiting an excruciating thirty minutes (Note to self: Getting to the airport too early with kids is worse than having to rush. “Look at that trashcan! Is that a toy?? What’s that man doing? What’s that girl eating? Girl, what are you eating? Lady can I touch your shoe? Oh look she has a princess backpack!” Can someone say overstimulation? ). I hope we have the row to ourselves, but no. A older man sits next to us. I scrutinize his face. I’m dying to use my line on that passenger that gives me the “I have to sit next to two kids” look: If you didn’t want to take public transportation then maybe you shoulda chartered that jet. But he sits down pleasantly.
“ ‘A crumby commercial? Son of a bitch!’ “ Frankie quotes another classic Christmas Story line to the man.
The man chuckles. I actually feel a little sorry for him. This guy doesn’t even know what he’s in for.
I can’t seem to get anything organized. Everything Frankie wants she can’t have. Zoe is smearing her breakfast bar all over my jeans and to make me more annoyed the flight attendants start their spiel. Okay, let me say this. You can’t make up for being a shitty airline with lame humor. That’s like giving permission for the shittery. Oh there’s nothing to eat and my legs are scrunched up to my armpits forming blood clots, but that bit with the seatbelt was so cute. So it’s cool. No way. Let’s just face the reality that this is not going to be the greatest four hours of our lives and joking about the pilots lack of experience is not making me feel any better.
Finally we are at cruising altitude and Frankie can use her approved electronic devices. Let the attention span of a gnat commence immediately. She watches about five minutes of a movie before she wants to watch another one. She loses all her crayon in the first fifteen minutes. She launches her hair band into the row ahead of us. And Zoe, officially the laziest baby in the world who would lay in my lap all day at home if I let her, all of sudden wants her freedom. Not to mention she flings her sippy cup and lambie into the aisle every chance she can get. Bet the guy next to me didn’t know he be on baby crap retrieval duty, did he?
I look at the time. Three and half hours to go.
“Mama, I got to go potty,” Frankie says.
“All right let’s do this,” I say.
I make this nice man next to me get up (I’m sure he could use a few minutes away from crazy town) and make our way to the bathroom. I jam all three of us into it which is comical in itself.
“NO!” She proclaims.
And once again I’m in a wrestling match with my four year old only this time we have no space to thrash and I’m holding Zoe who once again coos with delight. We pour out of the bathroom and go back to our seat. I am livid.
This happens two more times.
We even have the whole front section of the plane chanting: “You can do it! You can do it!”
A woman with sad sparkling eyes says,” I just went it was awesome!”
A man who seemed to be giving the “van down by the river” speech ended with “It’s so cool to go on a plane!”
Frankie rolled her eyes. Dude, she’s four. She’s not an idiot.
We come back to our seats the third time and I am defeated.
“Are you doing okay?” The flight attendant asks me sweetly.
I want to scream at her, “NO! Take them. Do you guys have a playroom I could throw them in? And by playroom I mean, baggage area. Dogs are their right? So it’s okay. They love dogs.”
But instead I say, “ ‘Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.’ “ I couldn’t help myself. She just looks at me confused and walks away. She must have skipped the day in flight attendant school when they watched Airplane.
I really wish I could get lost in a Toto song right now. I could be in the middle of a nuclear holocaust and Africa would bring joy to my melting heart.
I watch Frankie squirm in her seat. She has to go. Bad.

Its gonna take a lot to take me away from you...
There nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do...

She is squeezing her legs shut. Dammit why did I let her guzzle that milk!

I bless the rains down in Africa...
Gonna take some time to do the things we never ha-ha-ha-ha- ha- have...

We’re in our final decent. I make peace with the fact that it’s going to happen. We land and pull up to our gate which of course is not ready yet. The man next to me jumps away from his seat. He knows.
“Mama,” She pleads looking at me with big eyes. I want to cry. I flash back to when I was a kid and I peed my pants at Disney world.
“Oh sweetie. Just go babe,” I say. I shove Zoe’s blanket under her dress. A full minute later she is relieved. I go into survival mode. Change her clothes. Pile up the pee soaked ones. No plastic bag, but who cares at this point. We exit plane. I have breakfast bar in my hair. I’m covered in spit, pee and boogers. You might think it would be hard to retain my M.I.L.F. title, holding pee soaked clothes but judging by the guy’s face in 13B I’m going to go ahead and say I rocked that shit anyway. Hey I’m smiling. I made it. Soon I can relax my hold on my wild child, set down my now clingy baby and have a beer.
The flight back was much better. Frankie wore a pull-up and I got her a giant bag of popcorn that kept her busy for awhile. I dosed Zoe with some Benadryl and tethered her sippy cup and lambie to the arm rest. Pretty smooth sailing. There were only two snafus. One, Zoe stole a tee shirt from a store at the airport and I didn’t notice until I was folding up the stroller at the end of the jetway. She was quite proud of herself. It wasn’t even a cute shirt. And two, we were delayed about ten minutes because some jackass didn’t want to put on his seatbelt. Man, I got stolen goods on board. I even got a few minutes with my Ipod and had some alone time with Toto. I didn’t even cringe when the pilot landed and said, “Weeeeeeee folks! We finally made it. Now I’m going to take what’s left of the plane back to the terminal.”

Pyro-therapy

I used to keep a cookie sheet under my bed and burn stuff on it.

Before you freak out (mom), my pyro stage did not last long. I was much too afraid of burning the house down. I loved the idea of burning stuff. Striking the match. I loved the smell, the disintegration of the paper, but then I would panic when a piece of ash flew upwards and I’d extinguish it before I could get my full pyro high. The cookie sheet was probably back in its rightful place before my mom’s next batch of peanut butter cookies. But I think I was onto something then.

Burning something is freeing.

Years later things are different. Now I keep my negative feelings under there. I remove them from my brain before bed, tuck them carefully under the box spring, but instead of burning them I store them up like it’s a deep freezer. Preserving them. So in case anyone asks I can say, “See here’s all my baggage.” Freezer burn and all.

Not super healthy I’ve realized.

My 10 year old self was wise. I got out the old cookie sheet, sat quietly in the backyard and set some shit on fire. I emptied the metaphorical freezer I’d created under my bed. I wanted my dreams to be free, to be infinite, not burdened with the past. I still panicked a little bit when the ash flew upward, but for different reasons now. I didn’t realize how much I was holding on.

So I let it go.

Newspaper Blackout

An Austin Kleon blog was forwarded to me and it fueled me with inspiration. It's titled: How to Steal like an Artist. I mentioned in my previous blogpost his log book idea I started doing. But after meandering around his site I found another fun thing to try.

Newspaper blackout poetry.

It's become a fun stress releasing hobby. It's easy. "Grab a marker and a newspaper and blackout the words you don't need." At first I was worried that it wouldn't be "right." (Yes let's go back to that fun chestnut of a creativity blocker.) Then I let that go and just went for it. I do it to find out what it's going to tell me and there is a great satisfaction you get when the poem emerges.

Here's a few that I came up with:

Feel free to share some of yours with me!

The Mid 2011 Check In

I'm going to stray from my usual story telling format and do a little mid year review. This is as much for me as it is for you. If I write this down I must follow through. I feel like I need to sort out my brain a bit. Seeing what's going on written down seems to make all the files in my head collate. (Collating is one of my favorite things by the way. I can collate anything and feel loads better.)


Writing
I'm in rewriting mode for my sci fi/dystopian young adult novel. I'm dilgently going chapter by chapter forcing myself not to rush, to take my time and look at every freakin sentence. I finally realized how after a couple pages I start to skim. It's slow going, but getting good stuff done.

Also, my newest picture book, Grambo, will soon be available on Be There Bedtime Stories! The illustrations by the fabulous, Betsy Hamilton are beyond incredible. I cannot wait for the world to see!

What I'm Reading
I'm almost done with The Magicians by Lev Grossman. An amazing read! I was told "if you liked Harry Potter you should read this." I was obsessed with Harry Potter and this is Harry Potter with drugs and sex thrown in. Next on my list are: The Pillars of the Earth and Game of Thrones.

New endeavors!
I've decided to start a log book, an idea stolen from the poet, Austin Kleon. I've also decided to start doing morning pages again. (Writing fifteen minutes every morning stream of conciousness right when you wake up.
I started to make book boxes for my kids and godson. I will collect books for them and on their 13th birthday I will give them their book box. A start to their library and I'll put them in a really cool box too. Hopefully this will turn out awesome not really lame and they will look at me "like great a whole crap load of books, thanks mom/godmother." Hopefully they will love books like I do and be super stoked.

A lot of change in my life is coming. So I'm trying to embrace it all. Focus on making a happy home, keeping at the work I love and keep open to all the possibilities.
So that's about it. Feel free to please comment about what you are up to. I'd love to hear!

Close Quarters

When I was fifteen I had to live in a twenty feet by twenty feet area with my parents and eleven year old brother. I also was pretty sure Charles Manson was working on our kitchen floor.
It was February of 1992. I was in the throws of adolescence and lucky for me, our house was being remodeled and what this meant was, I was forced to live in the dining/living room with my family. There could be no greater hell I could imagine.

Let me give you a lay of the horrific land:

I can imagine the ad in the paper:
A charming room for rent. Perfect for the tight knit family. Furnished with two double beds next to each other in an old dining room. Have a privacy obsessed teenager? Phone/work area within ear shot of anywhere in the unit! Fridge humming inches away from your beds. Perfect for your midnight snack cravings. A cozy T.V. area ideal for family bonding. A cute 3/4 bath. What more could you need?

There was only one way a fifteen year old girl would react to this:

Excuse me while I vomit. Sharing a bed with my brother?? One phone? One bathroom? All I wanted was privacy. A place to be awkward and daydream all by myself sans judgmental audience. This was going to be the longest few months of my life.
I lived in a Walton’s episode every night.
“Good night Beth,” mom said.
“Goodnight mom,” I mumbled.
“Good night Ryan,” dad said. “Good night Ellen.”
“Good night Lee,” mom said.
“Good night dad.” Ryan said. “Good night Beth. Good night mom.”
“Good night everyone,” I said a bit too loudly.
I had about as much privacy as a prison inmate when it came to phone calls. Thank God the bathroom had a lock and it did not help that the disaster zone filled with construction workers that resembled serial killers were held back by the flimsy wall of plywood and tarp. Our house may have been being remodeled, but my insides, my brain, my body was in its own remodeling state. Adolescence was like the Measles. Potentially fatal, but all anyone can notice is how crappy you look. I just wanted to be able to disappear. But we might as well have had a spotlight installed on the ceiling.

INT. MAKESHIFT STUDIO APARTMENT-WAY TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING
Beth is sleeping smashed in between the wall and a thick barrier of down pillows. A spotlight illuminates her.
BETH
What the--

Mom mans the spotlight wearing a huge smile.

MOM
Morning darling!

DAD (O.S.)
Would you like some bacon?

Pan to dad making some bacon on a hot plate. Ryan sits in the background watching T.V. (He had to deal with this too. He did the best he could.)

MOM
Oh is that a zit?

The spotlight pinpoints on the pimple on Beth’s face.

MOM (CONT.)
Oh and your friend Steve called. He might come over!

Beth is horrified.

Well I survived. Looking back. Eh, shouldn’t have been that bad I guess. But at the time it was torture. Now living 2000 miles away... well... sigh... (in a barely audible mumble) I sort of miss those close quarters. Not THAT close, but you know what I mean. Don’t expect me to repeat this, but ... I like those knuckle heads that are my family.

Note Boyfriend

(This is a smidge true and a smidge fiction. I changed the names to protect the guilty.)


I was the picture of adolescent horror, but I had no clue. It was the morning of my first day of sixth grade. I sat in front of my mirror picking my blonde permed hair into the perfect halo. I adjusted my pink-rimmed square glasses on the bridge of my nose, folded the collar of my turquoise turtleneck dress down and added the perfect finishing touch. A extra long “pearl” necklace. I looked like a thirty-year-old business woman in an eleven year old’s body. All I needed was the brief case. The smile was undoubtedly pre-teen though, under bite and all.
I was terrifically uncool.
“Triangles or squares?” my mom yelled from downstairs.
“They are actually rectangles,” I corrected coming downstairs with my backpack.
“Rectangles it is,” she said cutting my sandwich and handing me my lunch.
“Bye mom,” I said heading for the door.
“Wait for your brother. He’ll be out in a second. Ryan? Triangles or Squares?”
“Tell him to hurry up,” I said walking outside.

Then the first thing that ever really happened to me, happened.

I froze. On the porch was a red rose with a note folded in perfect triangle attached to it. It said my name. B-E-T-H. Definitely boy handwriting. I scrambled to pick it up, ran behind a bush that I’m pretty sure was not tall enough to hide my hair, and unfolded the tightly bound ruled paper
Dearest Beth,
My name is Adam Harris.
I sat in front of you last year in Mrs. Kline’s class.
I think you’re neat. I think you’re the prettiest
girl in school. Especially in that blue dress you wear almost everyday…

“Oh my god.” I could barely breathe. I kept reading.

You’re the smartest too.
I’ve been waiting all summer to see you.
Let’s hang out at recess. I’ll write you a note.
Adam

I didn’t think I had ever talked to him, but that didn’t matter. Adam Harris. A boy.
“We had the same initials!” I thought to myself. “I’d better get to school. Oh gosh. Oh no. He’s going to be there. Oh god…”
I took a step onto the sidewalk and was nearly mowed over by the latest fashion trends.
“Nice dress Beth. Didn’t you wear that last year?” A familiar voice mocked. Amanda Wright. The most popular girl in school. She laughed with her minions as they ran away.
I didn’t care. Adam liked my dress.
“Beth, wait up!” my little brother ran up. “What are you doing? Is that a flower? What do you have that for?”
“Ryan, shut up!” I said. I stuffed the rose and note into my backpack and continued on with my brother trailing behind me.
“Sooooorrrrry,” Ryan whined.
But I beamed.
In school relationships were like the love affairs on soap operas my babysitters liked to watch. Beginning with strangers exchanging glances across a crowded playground, an innocent chance meeting at the drinking fountain, falling in love by Social Studies and broken hearts by Gym class. I desperately wanted to be part of that cycle.
A note boyfriend.
The bell rang.
“See you after school…with your booooyyyfriend,” Ryan teased running off to join his class.
I didn’t care. Nothing could get me down that day.
Adam. There he was. His messy brown hair covered his face. His red converse propped up on the seat in front of him.
My mind was going a millions miles a second.
“He’s not looking over here. He’s staring down at his desk. He must be nervous too. I don’t know if I really want to see him or if I really don’t want to see him. Should I sit by him or should I…Just go, but don’t sit that close. I’m gonna sit down two seats behind him. Go! I’m walking. I’m walking. He hasn’t looked up yet!”
His eyes hadn’t moved. Slowly I took in my breath. I strode passed his desk. I took a deep drunken inhale. He smelled like dirt and orange peels. Just what I imagined. And I sat. Staring at the back of his head. He didn’t move an inch.
“He had to have known it was me,” I thought to myself. “I have his favorite blue dress on.”
Then Amanda Wright sat between us. Perfect.
“I just got a note from Brandon we’re meeting at the swings after school,” She said to her crony across from her.
She wasn’t the only one with a note boyfriend. I had one too. Recess was at 10:20. It was our first possible interaction. I could barely see around Amanda’s perfectly feathered hair to see if maybe Adam was writing a note. 9:30. Nothing yet. 9:49. Nothing. 10:11.
“Maybe I should not talk to him on the playground,” I thought. “I mean...” “PPSSSTTT!” Amanda’s hand crept over her shoulder holding a tightly folding paper triangle. “Here geek.”
A note. I stifled a squeal. I opened it.

Will you meet me by the bars at recess? Circle yes or no.

I took a deep breath and decided my fate. I circled an undeniable yes. I carefully folded the note and passed it to Amanda who in turn passed the note back to Adam. The deal was done.
The bell blared. The class stood together in a unanimous sigh of relief and we bolted outside for our twenty-two minutes of freedom.
“Wow! Adam’s already out the door,” I thought.
I walked out slowly. I had heard you’re supposed to make a man wait. I sauntered out to the blacktop. He was standing with a few friends. I walked with my sights set through the buzz of recess: home base and playtime and no tag backs, very careful not to trip as I made my way over to him. His friends hurried away leaving us alone together. I had butterflies in my stomach, but I greeted him with a huge smile. He looked nervous. He had his thumbs in his pockets, his feet kicked the ground.
“Hey, listen, I’m sorry. They paid me to do it,” Adam said not looking up. “They thought it would be funny…” He laughed a bit. Instinctually I began to laugh with him. Until my ears caught up with the words.
Instantly, my feet bolted to the ground. Our eyes locked. His eyes faded from our reflected future to a hard eternal gray. And life had screeched to a halt. I froze time and the playground became full of granite faces. A wax museum. Statues of boys playing kickball, girls ring around the rosy surrounded me. I studied his face for a glimpse of humanity, but his eyes were carved out of sharp glass and his mouth a crudely chiseled smile.
Life was easier when cooties were rampant.
I took the time to cherish these last moments of safety I had. Then I released him from the rock I cast him in and he ran. I sank into the gravel under the bars. And the bell rang again.
I did not want to go back in that classroom. I knew they were laughing. I wanted to scream…You don’t know! He just got scared. He just got nervous!
The day was a blur. Spelling. Irreparable. I-R-R-E-P-A-R-A-B-L-E. Lunch. I sat alone and hid behind my foggy glasses steamed by my soup. Science. Gym. I could have done without the jelly ball smacking me in the face during dodgeball. Finally, school was out.
I could only hope…that they would forget. Maybe laugh at someone else tomorrow. I walked passed my teacher’s desk as my enemy ran out in front of me. But before I can cross through the threshold. She closed the door and knelt in front of me. Her eyebrows curled with deep concern. She smelled like magazine pages. More paper than perfume. She told me of ancient love stories and of a world when love was good and real. Her speech was peppered with phrases like: “Your time will come.” “You’ll bloom like a flower.” And…”There are plenty of fish in the sea.” All I wanted was to get out of there. I looked back at her and she was sitting at her desk, proud. Still lost in her own memories of love. Looking like she became teacher of the year.
Ryan was waiting for me sitting on bench outside.
“Where have you been?? Making out?” Ryan said making slurppy kissing noises.
“Leave me alone,” I said walking the opposite way of home.
“You have to walk home with me. Mom says!” He said pouting.
“Just go! I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.
Ricky started to protest again, but stopped when he saw the tears in my eyes. He ran off.
I wiped the half formed tears and shook the sadness out of me. I opened my backpack and took out the rose and twirled it in my hands and played out my dreamt reality.
“Thanks for the flower, Adam. I love it. The note was really nice too. I know you were kidding earlier. Don’t worry about it. Really? Thanks. It’s ok. I understand. Of course I’d like to go out with you. Where? I don’t know. Anywhere…

Gravel

I would guess I was around age nine when I was accused of assault with a deadly weapon. I wasn’t formally charged or anything, but when you’re nine any adult might as well be wearing a cop uniform.
It was a Saturday. I was dragged to my brother’s tee ball game. I took refuge on the playground with my best friend Megan. I could not handle another five year old tapping the ball, letting it dribble off the tee and barely clear home base or just miss the ball completely. We were on the swings. The ground was covered in millions of pieces of gravel. I absent-mindedly kicked them with my dangling feet unaware of how if it was asphalt, maybe this would have gone differently. Then again it could have been worse that way. Asphalt tends to come off in chunks on the edges.
What did we talk about at nine years old? What was on the forefront on our minds?
“I got some new earrings at Claire’s last night,” Megan said pointing to her earlobes.
“Cool. Orange cats,” I commented.
I imagine it was something like that.
I heard the sound of a gravel hitting gravel in front of me. Megan and I looked up to see a boy, younger than us, hanging on the domelike jungle gym. He tossed bits of gravel at us. His face was blank. It didn’t seem too malicious. Just your garden variety rock tossing. Megan and I ignored him and resumed our cat and saturday morning cartoon banter. The boy started throwing the rocks into the air above his head. When they landed it sounded like hail.
I remember thinking, “He’s going to hurt himself.”
Seconds later, he abruptly ran away.
“Do you want to see Splash?” Megan asked me. “My mom and dad have the video at home.”
“Really? The mermaid movie? Okay.” My stomach fluttered. I was pretty sure that was rated R.
“Which one?!? Tell me which one!” I heard an angry woman’s voice yell.
Megan and I looked to our left. Storming toward us was a beet red woman. The jungle gym boy trailed behind her. We froze. I tried to steady my swing with my foot, but my legs were too short and the gravel was slippery.
The woman stopped in front of us breathing heavily. “Come here,” she said to the boy. The boy stood next to her. “Tell me.” She said to him.
He looked at both Megan and I, deciding. His eyes landed on me. “Her, mom,” he said pointing at me.
My heart was pounding. The boy’s mother pulled his lip down and showed me the blood. “Where are your parents?” she growled.
I looked into this kid’s eyes, but he betrayed nothing.
I couldn’t speak. I had no idea what to do. I could only hear Megan’s breathing. She sounded like she was just getting over a cold. I subconsciously looked over to the field my brother was playing on and without warning, this woman, this stranger, grabbed my arm so hard I thought she might have pulled it out of it’s socket and dragged me off the playground in the general direction of the baseball field. Megan followed behind along with the boy. Why did he say that? I was terrified. She pulled me harder so I would keep up with her pace. No one had ever treated me this way before. I was so scared I would be in trouble. I felt completely powerless. This was new. I’d gotten in trouble plenty of times, but never something I hadn’t done. My parents wouldn’t believe me. I had no idea how to handle myself. The walk seemed to be miles. At the most it had to have only been a block or so. I began questioning my own memory. Maybe I did do it. Did I? I was going to be in so much trouble. I was never going to get to see Splash. Could she call the cops on me? She never let go of my arm. She held me so tightly I thought I’d have bruises. I don’t remember my feet moving. I couldn’t feel them.
She said nothing to me as we walked. My parents came into view. They were cheering. Maybe my brother’s loser team was on the upswing. My dad glanced my way and the smile fell from his face. “Beth?” This was it. I was in trouble.
Then the woman started screaming, “Your kid threw rocks at my Bobby! Look at what she did!” Bobby, the stupid fucker, showed him his lip. “She could have killed him!” The woman started to speak again, but my dad interrupted her.
“Get your hands off my daughter,” he said in a tone I had never heard before.
It seemed for an instant that she had forgotten she was holding my arm. She let go suddenly. My dad pulled me over to him protectively. I couldn’t speak. I was shaking.
“She didn’t do anything,” Megan said breaking the silence. “The kid is lying.”
My dad looked at me. I nodded. He then looked at the woman. He didn’t need to say anything. The truth hovered in the air, undeniable. She walked away with her lying son in a huff. I realized I was holding my breath. When I let it out, I cried.
My best friend had my back. That was no surprise. That was in the job description. But my dad had my back too. Maybe that shouldn’t have been a surprise. But it was. If adults say something it must be true. That was what I had always believed. But my dad knew the truth when he saw it. To see an adult really get it wrong, was astounding to me. But to see my dad get it really right, now as a soon to be cynical teenager, that was the miracle.