The mister has been spending a lot of time at the dentist, and rather odd hours the dentist keeps. His appointment last night was 7.30 pm.
While the mister is at the dentist we walk around saying, ‘Poor mister’, and when he comes home we say, ‘How are you? Poor mister’ though in truth, I am thinking a little more than I should be about how freaking expensive this is getting and you wouldn’t want to see a person in that much pain, but, you know, money doesn’t grow on trees and moving is a very expensive exercise and not to mention that tax bill we had to pay because of some miscalculation or other (on which note, how does that stuff happen, I mean really, how does it) and so forth.
The other day, while the mister was out at the dentist, youngest boy sat in bed, making a little book for the mister with illustrations and a text which, as it’s main theme, suggested the mister is ‘awesome’, ‘rocks’, and the ‘best dad in the world’.
‘And you know what,’ youngest boy said to me after he had shown it to me, ‘when Dad sees this, he is gonna cry like Federer.’
And then he gave me a hug, got back into bed, turned out the light and five minutes later was sleeping.
Life, she truly is fogwholloping. Left or right?