Saint by NUMBers

 

32 Weeks

"Honey. You'd be proud. I wasn't even adding it up and it was $65.07. I only went over by seven cents."

"Yeah... that's good sweetheart. But I said 60."

"You did?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well, I was still close."

"Ha... yes, true."

"So now for the bad news."

"Are you OK?"

"Oh yes, fine! But I did it again. Baby brain."

"Again?!"

"I have no idea how it happens. There is some sort of vortex between the cash register and our refrigerator."

"What was it this time?"

"The soy milk and yogurts. I'm sorry."

"It's OK. Thanks for doing the shopping, sweetheart. Where ever this stuff is going, I hope it's appreciated..."

I forget EVERYTHING now. EVERYTHING. I was once a woman who couldn't bear to leave a closet door open and these days I walk into rooms, forget why I'm there, get caught up in something shiny, and leave behind whatever was in my hands to search for later. It's amazing I arrive at work each day wearing shoes. In the last few months, I have destroyed two frying pans, two cookie trays, and a pot. You know, just cooking and baking things for Satan. Our garbage collector must think I'm a fickle sculptress making kitchen themed works out of dark steel and coal. Jet-black baking pans with a dozen spot-welded, lumpy tar discs placed just so. Three times now, I've come back from the weekly grocery-run with items missing. I make a list, pick things out, put them in a cart, take them for a ride around the store, pay for them at the register, and an hour later, stand dumbfounded over an unloaded car trunk having no idea where/how/when I lost the breakfast cereal. THREE times.

Third time's a charm. They happen in threes. Knock three times...

Both Greg and my father are men that pay attention to details and both are men who use those details to show their love. Greg works his tail off to meet our family budget while keeping the bills paid on time and the ledger organized to the penny. My father once worked a second job as the night shifter at a convenience store and went through a period of years where he saved cans for recycling cash so he could send me extra money for college. Their IQ's are as high as their credit scores. It's nice to share my recent brainless generalities with them. They come to the rescue with a big "S" for "Specifics" on their chests. I'm a lucky wife and daughter.

"do u know what this week is," my father texts.

"Week 32!"

"yes! and it is also the 32nd week if the year"

"How cool!"

"that means something"

"Surely, it has to."

"dOne call me shirley"

"OK Laverne. Cool number thing. You love that."

"i do. numbers are specail."

"Like your wedding date on your license plate."

"yes. your week 32 is alos week 32 of the year! a good number. cuz you'r special and i Love you"

"Aw, Daddy. I love you, too."

"my thumbs are too big for this phone"

"These days my brain is too dumb for mine." 

"don't worry daughter. it only lasts fore  the rest of your life."