"Listen! She's going to say the words!"

Ten points if you know what movie that line is from. If you don't know what movie that it from, I feel it incumbent upon me to inform you that your cultural education has some serious gaps. 

We've all been sick.

Repeatedly.

Hence, why I haven't been blogging.

That, and I seem to need some sort of angsty catalyst to write something, it seems.

Like in college when I wrote the best angsty, emo poetry EVER. But then I got over the boy/the move/the drama of the moment, and irresponsibly let myself get happy and thus died my Muse. Luckily, in the college years, I developed brain cells, and can now write poetry because I like to, and it's usually pretty good. I can't say the same about novels. Novels will always be something I loath. I wrote one once, so I should know...

Anyway, I've been happily buzzing about the house being productive, and while I felt a pang of guilt that I was depriving my rapt audience, I figured you guys were probably having a good time eating Christmas cookies or other holiday treats of your particular religion (mazel tov and/or Happy Kwanza).

Besides getting a lot of laundry done, I have been apparently fixating on particular words I use in conversations with people, and I sometimes forget that my children are listening (like today when Jeremy and I were fighting arguing discussing what we should do about the faucet that snapped off in the kitchen and Joshua came in in the middle of it all, looked at Jeremy and said, "Dad, just ignore her," which subsequently earned him a stint in the corner of his bedroom, especially after he added, "But she isn't being nice!" It's touching that Joshua is siding with his dad, since, you know, they are out numbered with all the female time-bombs in the house, but he has yet to learn the wisdom in my father's words: Keep the women happy. Anyway...).

Some words have a nice ring, and so I end up using them a lot. Like "retarded" (not PC, I know...but I grew up in a different era, people!), "coagulate," "creeper" (I really like this one), and, my favorite, "hobo." I frequently make commentary to people on Sundays, when they say how cute my children are, that they typically look like hobos, and we all laugh, while the children look confused and/or run down the hallway/tear up paper/candy wrappers and throw them all over the floor and/or scream and gesticulate wildly until we get the message that they are hungry and want to go home. We are the reason they vacuum the church hallways. Just sayin'...

One night during dinner, Eva vacated her chair, shyly made her way to my side, looked up at me and said, very quietly:

"Mom?"

I looked down at my little daughter, who looked like she would be faint if something stronger than a slight breeze puffed in her face, and said:

"Yes?"

She paused for a moment. Then, worried, asked:

"What's a hobo?"

The question must have been roiling inside of her for quite sometime, judging by the great deal of concern she exuded.

So I just laughed.

For a lot longer than she probably appreciated.

I finally answered her, trying my best to reassure her with my tone and body language that I wasn't laughing at her.

I'm sure it made no sense to her. I mean, she does live in a house, and doesn't wear dirty clothes, or have a beard or anything.

Someday she'll understand. When she has a few of her own little hobos.