Running Free

Running Free

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Kid Brain

Recently, one of my son's (aka DS as in"Dear Son") let me know that one of the girls on his swim team asked him about my blog.

"How does she know I have a blog?" I asked him.

"Evidently you mentioned it to her a while back," was his response.

"Mmm" I thought to myself.

"Can I have the URL?" he asked. "

"As soon as I can remember it," I responded.

I was till trying to process the fact this this young 10+ something remembered a conversation that she had with me at some point in my long distant past.  And not only could I not remember the URL for my woefully neglected blog, but I couldn't recall ever having told any of DS's swim mates that I attempted to keep a blog.

As I pondered this lack of memory, DS poked my arm, "Um, Mom, C____ (I shall just give the young lass a first initial in order to protect her privacy) is texting me asking for the link..."

"Okay, let me go look it up."

We happened to be home when this interrogative came into focus. Oh, did I not set the scene?- shame on my- just because I have an MFA in creative writing does in no way mean that I actually can write....that said- close your eyes and put yourself in the moment: dinner time, pot of water boiling on the stove as a not very pleasant hiss reminds you that perhaps it is time to turn the heat down....the clanking of dishes as you set the table, toss a salad and attempt to submerge long grains of whole wheat pasta into the cauldron of boiling water....

Okay, now back to the the URL and the memory - or lack thereof.  I log into my computer (hence the importance of being home) look up the URL, and dutifully pass the series of letters and dots  along to DS who in turn passes it along to C who has been texting dribs and drabs to DS. Texting is one of those skills I have never mastered. Indeed, one needs a dictionary to decode what it is I am trying to say- typing, well, like cooking, it's a skill that is not inherent to my genetic coding.

The ability of young ones- a mere decade old give or take a few years is actually a wonderment to me as I approach the age which shall not be named. I know my memory is not what it used to be. I must make lists and create little ditties to help me keep tabs of where I placed the password to my PC or my security code for this that and the other device.

Years ago, I too had a mind that was quick and witty and spot on. And as I try and wrack the feeble old noggin for the conversation that enabled the young C to have interest in my blog I recall a young thing- no more than three or four. He was a rather shall we say petulant and indulged young thing. At the time of our encounter I was working in a clothing boutique called Virgina Allen. It does not exist any more. But at the time when I worked there, it sold classic pieces designed for the executive woman on the rise.

This young whippersnapper was swinging like a chimpanzee on one of the round tables from which hung jackets and skirts. It had a glass topper that probably weighed twenty pounds - and as I eyed the young thing he probably weighed twice that much- which meant that any excessive force might be enough to tip the rounder, the clothes and the glass over- the outcome would not have been pretty.

I asked the young lad to please not do that- I believe I even used the word "Please."

"Oh be quiet you old billy goat!"

 I kid you not. This is what the young thing said to me. Lucky for me his mother and her designer bag decided to come and look for the long lost child at that exact moment.

"Your son just called me a billy goat," I said.

She gave me the  Greenwich Glare (this was in Greenwich, CT circa 1987)  -  took Junior by the hand and left.  For those of you not familiar with the Greenwich Glare it is a set way way of looking through someone of less financial success. It was often observed in the women of Westport and the  preppy wives of the Greenwich set. As a poor college student at the time it was a look with which I was intimately acquainted. Imagine ice daggers piercing your eyeballs and you can imagine the look.

A billy goat. A kid of a different kind. And now - here was DS's friend C asking to for a link to something that I couldn't even recall. Her kid brain certainly was in a different league to my Billy goat gruff days.

Billy goat indeed....

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