The Savvy Sister has been encountering more and more people who don’t read her blogs, which she does not find as shocking as you might expect. Some people prefer to read Dr. Phil’s new book entitled Life Code: New Rules for Winning in the Real World. Dr. Phil himself says his book is excellent, and he should know. He’s Dr. Phil.

What’s alarming, however, is the number of people who tell me they “don’t have time” to read my blog, or that they “don’t have time to read.”

This makes me all WHAT? You don’t have time to read my blog? Because I don’t have time to stand here and listen to you tell me that you don’t have time to read my blog, but heck, here I am, and in those 90 seconds you just wasted I could have read Frank Bruni’s column in the New York Times. Not having time to read is like not having time to brush your teeth. Keep it up, and something’s going start rotting right out of your head.

Do you not have time to read? Let’s talk.

Despite the best efforts of our kindergarten teachers, we’re becoming a society of aliterates – people who know how to read, but choose not to. And I get that! Here are the things I should be doing right this second instead of reading:

folding laundry

training my dog to stop eating socks

scraping penicillin off the baseboards of the house

having sex

hosing rat feces out of the garage

But I’m writing this chastising missive instead, and then I’m going to go READ. Because it’s the best way I know to improve my perspective, my smarts, and my vocabulary. Right now, I am reading Katherine Boo’s Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity. It’s a nonfiction novel describing a year in the life of poor families living in the slums of India. Crazy good.

The busiest, most influential people IN THE WORLD are often the most voracious readers – because they know it makes them better people. President Obama. The Dalai Lama. Too left wing? Try BILL “butthead” O’REILLY. He reads like crazy.

When parents make the choice to read, it teaches their children that learning extends far past the confines of formal education, and that they can broaden their horizons without the drudgery of homework. Certainly I learned a lot in school. But I’ve gained far more knowledge since then, thanks to the thousands of writers more talented than me who convincingly string words together.

Now, the Sister loves when people read her blogs. But blogs aren’t for everyone. People who prefer to read the Wall Street Journal, 50 Shades of Grey, or Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends & Influence People will hear no complaints from me. None. Any type of reading allows you to exercise your brain, and flexing those mental muscles can really, truly lead you to a better state of mind. And, in the case of 50 Shades, a better state of….being. Yeah. I definitely learned some things from that book.

So. READ, people. Every day. And occasionally, you should visit my blog. I’ll try to make it worth what limited time you have.

Sincerely, the Savvy Sister

This scenario may sound familiar to you, either because you yourself have been similarly negligent or because you read about it here a couple of years ago when Bluey died. Yes, yes, it’s a pattern. I am a serial Betta fish abuser. If it helps, I do sometimes feel bad about it.

In a more positive development, yesterday was Buddy the Wonder Dog’s VERY FIRST BIRTHDAY! To celebrate, he pooped out a sock.

Socks have become the bane of my existence. Buddy loves to chew everything, but he particularly loves socks. He knows he’s not supposed to chew socks, so if I see him chewing one, and he sees me seeing him, he starts gnawing double-time to swallow it before I can snatch it away. WHAT is UP with that?

This particular sock was swallowed last Wednesday. I know this because I witnessed it. The Diva had returned from school, ripped off her socks and flung them on the floor. “PICK UP YOUR SOCKS BEFORE THE DOG GETS THEM!” I screeched. So she went to her room, changed clothes, popped some popcorn, jumped on the couch, did a handstand against the wall, then meandered toward the socks, by which time there was only one to pick up.

So that sock has been sitting in Buddy’s belly for six entire days. How he managed to poop it out is a mystery, but I’m grateful because it saved me thousands of dollars in emergency surgery bills.

In other respects, Buddy is turning into a good little companion, and by companion, I mean: enormous brown furball who follows me everywhere. When I get out of bed to pee at 2 am, he’s right by my side. As I write, he sprawls on my feet. He stares at me a lot. He stays away from Hot  Firefighter Husband, who issues dog commands like someone’s flipping random flashcards in his face. BUDDY, STOP! NO! SIT! SIT! OKAY, NO! LIE DOWN! COME!

In closing, I guess should admit to myself that I’m falling in love with Buddy the Wonder Dog. This might not be great timing, as today is my 19th wedding anniversary, and instead of writing about how much I love Hot Firefighter Husband, I’m focusing on dead fish and dogs.

But Husband doesn’t eat socks, and he mostly cleans his own habitat so I don’t have to worry about switching him out for a fresh model, and in this way, he’ll always have an edge. Love him still.

Somehow the art therapist is opening up the Pterodactyl like a flower. Or maybe like a shaken can of soda.

His feelings have been stuck, gummed up in his brain, I guess, and we’ve only had basic knowledge of what’s propelling his emotions. He’s like a caveman. I know when he’s angry – holes in the wall, hair-pulling. I know when he’s frustrated – the SCREECHING. Sadness = tears wiped on my chest. (He’s always been a boob man.) When he’s scared, he stutters. But we often couldn’t figure out the impetus for his behavior.

Recently the kids and I engaged in a huge yelling match about a dozen or so different problems. Target was involved. Target is always involved. Damn, I love-hate-love-hate Target.

Anyway, the Diva was winning the yelling match, which is unusual because, remember, she’s perfect. I remained  seated in a chair digging my fingernails into my palm, thinking about whether I had enough credit left on my card to flee the premises for a day or 20. Then I remembered I would have to bring Buddy the Wonder Dog because otherwise Husband would let him eat all the socks in the house and die. That would complicate the vacay and trigger my PTSD by reminding me that I spent a fortune buying an autism assistance dog for my child who’s not autistic and then I so enabled the animal that he loves me like I’m air.

So I just sat there interjecting mild expletives while the kids argued. Finally the Pterodactyl spoke up: THIS IS ALL MY FAULT. IT’S ALWAYS MY FAULT. I’M THE ONE TO BLAME. I CAUSE ALL THE PROBLEMS IN THE HOUSE. IT’S ALL MY FAULT.

And everyone was quiet. My first thought was, “Damn straight, man.” Because, you know, it’s mostly true. But of course I didn’t say that because my very next thought was, “Mother of Tasmanian Devils, he gets it!”

Oh, my boy. I pulled him into me, and he heaved great big sobs on my chest, leaving tear stains on my boobs. Again. I should just have handkerchiefs sewn into my shirts.

It took me several minutes to grasp the significance of the moment – to realize that my 8-year-old son occasionally comprehends the havoc he wreaks on the family. What a burden to carry! For a long while he remained in my arms, shaking and crying, while I stroked his hair and whispered in his ear: Shhh. I love you. I love you. Shhhh. It’s okay. 

A couple of days later he freaked out on me as we drove to art therapy because he had forgotten something at home, and he came close to coming unglued – but suddenly, like a light switch, he turned off the panic and relaxed.

“Mom, I learned something,” he said after a minute. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he was calm, so I went with it. “What?”

“I learned that if you have a problem, you should go to the ocean, and the desert, and the rainforest, and all around the world until you find a solution,” he said.

(Insert long pregnant pause here.)

Speechless, I was. Oh, honey, I wanted to say. You’re right. That’s exactly what we’re trying to do for you.

But as a special Mother’s Day present, Husband climbed up on the roof and retrieved the shit from the shingles, by which point the wafting aroma had permeated the back deck. Like a barbecue!

I’ll be honest here. I’m not a big fan of Mother’s Day. Too much pressure to be happy! And it always presents a dilemma – what constitutes the perfect day? Hot Firefighter Husband cleans bathrooms and kitchens, loves to vacuum, and never gets angry when I bounce checks. But he couldn’t organize a Mother’s Day if the future of Red Sox baseball depended on it. So it’s up to me – do I want to spend the day alone? That seems….unmotherly. The ideal would be to spend the day with my family, but untethered to the tasks that normally wear me down, like keeping the children alive and preventing Buddy the Wonder Dog from eating the couch. But that’s impossible, because if I’m in the vicinity, EVERYBODY WANTS ME.

I longed to be so wanted all through my 20s. Now, as a I approach the half-century mark, I hear those three words all day long. I want you. I want you. I want you. Sometimes I feel like shouting, “CHILDREN! STOP WANTING ME! I’M NOT THAT GREAT!” But I don’t. Because, you know, it’s cool that they think I am.

The day has its perks, like heartfelt, hand-drawn cards from the kids. The Pterodactyl made me tissue paper flowers and wrote: I hope you have a good day and I love you so much I could blow up.

He does blow up! All the time! Maybe he’ll be a Hallmark writer when he grows up.

The Tyrant gave me a card that read: Dear Mom I love you and Happy Mother’s Day. You are the best. Do you love me to. I love you so much. I love you. I love  her. She dus to. I LOVE YOU. Then she kicked me for not reading her card first.

My darling Diva wrote a letter so poignant and sweet I can’t bear to repeat it, but here’s her opening line: I know I’m not the best kid, and I’m sorry. And I nearly shouted, “YOU’RE TOTALLY THE BEST KID! I COULD HAVE 10 OF YOU! LET’S RUN AWAY TO PARIS AND LIVE THERE FOREVER!” But I didn’t, because she’d miss the beach.

As a special treat, the younger children took baths that night without coercion, perhaps so they could alert the neighbors about the pornographic habits of all the Barbies who live in our house. Because the next day, while in the front yard, I glimpsed a statuesque nymph staring from the window, her taut boobs pressed against the glass. Note: It wasn’t me.

And on it goes.

Still, glitches have ensued. Buddy the Wonder Dog ate the Sitter’s flip flops two days in a row, so I had to buy her a new pair. And there was an episode involving the Pterodactyl, the sitter, a hammer and a pair of scissors. We’re calling it a funny little anecdote to share at his wedding.

Recently the Sitter watched the Tyrant child while I took the Pterodactyl to art therapy. He LOVES art therapy. Ms. K is his teacher/therapist. She plays soothing chakra chime music and sprays lavender scent in the room, and speaks to him in gentle encouraging tones. The Pterodactyl acts like a sedated bear cub when he’s there. “I LOVE him,” the therapist says. Well, duh. I’d love him, too, if he always acted like there were chakra chimes playing in his head and lavender stuffed up his nose. No, no, kidding. I totally love him. ADORE him. Even though after we left the art therapist’s office, he had a total fucking meltdown because I wouldn’t take him to Target so he could buy a Monster High doll. I swear, it’s like eating a chocolate chip cookie and thinking how much you love chocolate chip cookies and then chomping down on an omega-3 fish oil capsule and thinking, AS BETTY CROCKER IS MY WITNESS, I CAN NEVER FACE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES AGAIN. But then of course you do.

He finally eased himself out of the meltdown by breaking open an ink pen and making huge blue stains on the leather seats of Splenda, which seriously needs to be traded in now that we’ve made a payment on it.

As we drove home, we passed the Sitter walking with the Tyrant to go feed the ducks. Totes adores. I continued on home, walked in the door and found Buddy the Wonder Dog eating the mail. DAMMIT. Couldn’t fuss at the Sitter because she continues to come despite the HILARIOUS incident involving the hammer and scissors. Buddy had gnawed just the corner off one interesting package, which turned out to be a present from Generous Reader Linda Mowry. Linda had sent a gorgeous World Wildlife owl calendar for the Pterodactyl. How cool is that? Thank you, Linda. When my book comes out, I will send you a free copy.

When I gave the calendar to the boy, he took it as though it was made of glass. He quietly ran his inky fingers over the glossy pictures, and told me in hushed tones that he didn’t care at all about the damaged corner. It reminded me of the story he had written the previous night, the one he had insisted on reading to me before he drifted off to sleep:

Once thar was an iland filled with polar bears in Antartica. It was winter. All of the polar bears loved winter but one polar bear hated winter. He liked summer and spring. Tomorrow was the Polar Bear Plunge. He hated the Polar Bear Plunge. He liked hot water. Cold water was a dislike to him. He wished it was not even inveted. He wondered why the bears liked it. Reasons why he didn’t like it: to cold, to deep, to scary because of sharks, to crowded. But then he felt like he should try it the next day. It was time to do it. He got in line. He was the 20th one. He did this because he wanted to act like a big bear. Thar was a bear in line his age. He was new. He said I’m scared to me. I said don’t worry it will be fun. It was are turn. Go. We jumped in. When I got in I ghasped and said this is so much fun. My new friend said the same. We did it when it was the Polar Bear Plunge. P.S. The names of the two bears Jeff and JoJo. 

Seriously? Holy Sweetness. He’s trying, that boy. He’s trying really hard. So I’m trying, too. And I’m grateful to have the unexpected doses of fish oil. As you probably know, it’s good for your heart.

“You’re not fat,” he droned. “You’re in great shape.” He doesn’t say those phrases so much as he emits them like Pavlovian responses. That’s how often we’ve had the exact same discussion.

“But also?” I continued. “I feel guilty for worrying about being fat when I know that I’m not really fat and that it’s not really something I should be focused on. I mean, it’s so stupid. When I think about all the people in this world with real problems, I get furious at myself for worrying about my weight. But I just can’t seem to stop doing it.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes. We were on our way to an exercise class where I did so many one-legged squats that I may have permanently damaged my thigh muscles.

Then Husband suggested something that’s possibly brilliant, but more likely just his desperate attempt to avoid ever again having this conversation.

“Look,” he said. “You’re just not a glass-half-full kind of person. You’re not the happy-go-lucky, carefree, always-smiling type. You’re more sardonic and negative. Why don’t you just accept it, and stop worrying about it? So you obsess about your weight. Big deal.”

I’m proud to say I did not immediately stop speaking to him, and instead actually thought about his point. I certainly do tend to think of contentment as a clean canvas I must immediately mark up with Sharpies. Even going to the grocery store brings out the pessimist in me. Like, what’s the point of buying food for my kids? They’re just going to eat it.

“I get it,” I said. “So I can be disappointed if I gain a few pounds, and fret about it, then move on.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“And I don’t have to pretend to like (SPECIMEN A, WHO IS EVEN MORE ANNOYING THAN NICKI MINAJ),” I added hopefully.

“Of course not,” he answered. “How could you?”

WHEEEE! I felt liberated.

With this in mind, listen: I recently attended a fitness conference for two days ALL MY MYSELF and really benefited from it until I came home to find that Husband had let the Pterodactyl cut off all his pants legs and the Tyrant had taken the clothes out of her drawers and closets and thrown them on the floor. And Buddy the Wonder Dog is doing soooo much better with his training, but HOLY RIN TIN TIN if he eats another pair of the babysitter’s flip flops I’m going to have his teeth extracted. Also, the spring weather here in the Sunshine State has been idyllic, which can only mean that summer is almost here and my only plan thus far is to up my dose of Cymbalta to avoid any outward symptoms of insanity.

Finally, yes, I have gained five pounds and it’s driving me CRAY-CRAY. I’ve been doing what I call my fake diet – really healthy core eating, plus occasional handfuls of crap which I pretend don’t count. Note: fake dieting is incredibly frustrating because it still permits the self-righteousness of a healthy eater but without the weight loss benefits. So when I gain weight, I’m not all Damn, I’ve fallen off the wagon. I’m more like THIS IS SO FUCKING UNFAIR.

Whew! Got that out of the way, and I actually do feel better. The glass is still half-empty but at least I’ve got some water left, at least until I drink it down to help stay hydrated and avoid fluid retention which as you know leads to more weight gain.

Peace, peeps. Life’s not so bad, right? Except, you know, when it sucks.

Yesterday, she asked to have it back, but I was still traumatized and declined her request. She used her sternest voice ever and said, “Make the right choice, Mom, so I don’t have to yell at you any more!” But I made the wrong choice, so lots of (mutual) yelling ensued.

I’ve been yelling a lot lately. My throat hurts. And last weekend I wore overall cutoffs, a sure sign of mental anguish. In the old days – before I started working out fiendishly – I wore overalls practically every day. At the height of this regrettable trend, I owned seven pairs. I had the traditional denim kind, times two;  some khaki ones for smart casual days; black velvet for holiday parties; “short-alls” for summertime.

As I got in better shape, I expanded my wardrobe. Gradually, the overalls drifted toward the Goodwill pile.

I saved some, of course. Hot Firefighter Husband says I pull them out when I’m feeling bad about myself.

Thus the overall cutoffs a few days ago. I am feeling bad about myself. Days have become a whirl of laundry, gluten-free baking and yelling. And picking up dog poop. The omni-present gargantuan piles of crap. Honestly, though, it’s what gets me outside, so I shouldn’t complain.

The gluten-free thing is going well – my goal last week was to make something from scratch every day, and I did. REALLY! Cookies, cupcakes, chowder, muffins….I was like Martha Stewart without the illegal stock tips.

The new routine has helped the Pterodactyl dramatically. Physically, he’s transformed – taller, slimmer, and stronger. He said to me recently, “Mom, look at my stomach! I’m getting muscles!” I bit my lip to stem the tears, realizing my 8-year-old son had been aware of his soft doughy belly.

His verbal acuity has shot up as well. Instead of screaming, “NO! NO! NO!” he says stuff like, “YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS,” and “I LOVE GLUTEN! I MISS GLUTEN! I’M GOING TO START EATING GLUTEN ALL THE TIME AND YOU WON’T EVEN KNOW IT!”

Still, he’s not yet singing Kumbaya and giving his sister daily foot rubs. We’re still caught in this sticky limbo with a smart, handsome 8-year-old boy who can solve math word problems in his head but has the emotional regulation of a Tasmanian Devil.

So I’m feeling bad about myself, because I’m a problem solver and I can’t solve this problem: how do I spend 80 percent of my time managing my son’s high-maintenance lifestyle and still stay ahead of the laundry, spend quality time with each of the girls, cook healthy gluten-free meals, take Buddy the Wonder Dog for regular walks, read books, write, exercise, sleep well, and every once in a while have sex? I exhausted myself just typing that out.

Well. Just watch me, I guess. Husband says he’s rooting for me, but I think he’s mostly talking about the sex.

“Create a womb,” my husband said.

The analogy startled me; this was more than a decade ago, and we were undergoing infertility treatment at the time. But he was right. That’s what I needed to do. I dug big holes and added a little fertilizer, then filled the holes with water and swished the dirt around to create a hearty primordial soup; I then plopped in my horticultural embryos. I placed each plant carefully into its bed, then tucked in the dark earth around it. I’d never really gardened before. Houseplants withered at my touch, and the scant impatiens I’d always shoved into the ground each spring usually wilted convincingly by July.

But I became sick of looking at spiky grass stretching across my backyard like a green suburban desert. If life wouldn’t spring from me, I wanted it to spring from my soil. I wanted blooms to smile at me like satisfied children, and birds to eat sunflower seeds from my feeder while I watched. I dreamed of tending to a garden like a hen tends her eggs. I imagined photosynthesis occurring before my very eyes.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said my neighbor. He thought I was a slacker.

But one Sunday afternoon I picked up a shovel and started digging up the grass around the perimeter of my yard. Periodically I hit big old roots, or bricks left from long-ago construction, and I kneeled down and clawed at the dirt until I uprooted the culprits. The earthworms squirmed between my fingers as I carefully lifted them out of the reach of my shovel. The dirt blackened my knees and stained my overalls. It crawled beneath my fingernails and muted the gold on my wedding ring. I dug for hours, till blisters popped up on my hands and my back felt stiff as a pine tree.

I started shopping for flora in need of a home. Roses, maybe? But I wanted to be practical. Jason worked at the nursery near my house. He had long blond dreadlocks held back by a bandana. “Bluebird hydrangeas,” he told me. “Man, they’re awesome.”

“I don’t have a lot of sun,” I said doubtfully. But hydrangeas like shade, it turns out. I bought some. I consulted a landscape designer “What do you like?” she asked. I told her I like things that will live. She pointed me toward some althea hibiscus. Then thryallis, bush daisies, native azaleas, holly ferns, lantana, African irises and a gardenia bush. Also some dianthus. And a tiny King Sago palm. I loved lantana, but my dog liked it more. He used his teeth to pluck the yellow blooms right off the stem, like he was nibbling a miniature hot dog off a toothpick.

I planted and planted, and fretted.

When I was away from the house, I thought about the plants. When the afternoon sun glared down like a punitive schoolteacher, I felt dried out. I imagined my little azaleas, their leaves drooping like arid tongues. The dianthus didn’t want to bloom, and I regretted not creating a womb for them. Classic Failure to Thrive syndrome.

My neighbor informed me that my gardenia would probably get a disease and die, and wanted to hit her. After she left, I leaned over it and searched for signs of stress. Sweet lemony blooms shined white against the dark green leaves. “I won’t let you die,” I whispered, feeling slightly insane.

I decided to grow vegetables. My friend Mary had some extra cherry tomato plants and she brought them to me. They were tiny, not much more than a few leaves on a stalk barely four inches high. I felt nervous taking them into my custody. We dug furrowed aisles, which we filled with Black Cow manure. That night I dreamed there was liquid napalm roiling beneath my little tomatoes, and I woke up in a cold sweat.

My dad wanted me to plant some carrots. He thought it would be cool if I raised a carrot to the sky after pulling it out of the ground and shouted, “As God is my witness, I will never go hungry again!” like Scarlett O’Hara.

My friend Walter came over to bring me a datil pepper plant and show me everything I was doing wrong. I listened to his advice on the fungus that’s bothering my tomatoes and my hydrangeas’ need for water. “Did you dig up all the old roots before you planted?” he asked. “Pretty much,” I said.

On my deck sat a ficus tree growing in a clay pot, and Walter turned on the hose to water it. “Don’t water that,” I snapped. “I hate that plant. I’m trying to kill it.”

“That’s terrible,” he said. “If you don’t want it, just chop it up. Don’t just let it suffer.” A month earlier I would have laughed at him. But after he spoke, I felt ashamed. Later I stood on the deck and observed my poor ficus tree. The tear-shaped leaves seemed droopy with grief.

This past Monday, a neighbor distracted me, and we started talking and walking  before the bus had even pulled away from the stop. Abo

ut a minute later I realized I had broken our little mama-kid tradition, and I felt badly about it. Intermittently, I felt badly about it all day.

Then the bombs went off at the Boston Marathon, and I stayed glued to the news for hours, trying – unsuccessfully – to grasp the horror of what had happened. I don’t think any of us can really absorb that level of evil without living through it. That night, as rescuers sifted through blood and makeshift shrapnel and children relived the images of people blowing apart, I cooked dinner, walked the dogs and folded laundry. Lucky, lucky me.

But when evening had left and I collapsed in my bed with my thoughts, I remembered having failed to wave to the Diva, and felt enormous regret for that momentary lapse. Suppose there had been an accident on the way to school? Suppose she had been hit in the head with a ball during recess and freakishly lapsed into unconsciousness?

What if someone bombed her school? Or broke inside and shot her? (Great. Now I’m sick to my stomach.)

Don’t misunderstand me – I don’t worry about those types of occurrences. They’re anomalies, and I get that. I’m not raising my children to be afraid of this world – I hope that we instead are instilling them with the strength needed to face this world. And right now, they borrow that strength from me.

The Diva, perched on the precipice of adolescence, looks to me – and at me – for approval and assurance. Our little waving routine isn’t just habit – it’s almost like a daily transfusion of mettle. It’s me saying, “Take on this day, girl! I’m with you! Piece-a-cake!”

Meanwhile, the news from Boston continues to be grim, and the pall of mourning has weighed me down all week. What to do? Give blood? What?

Yesterday afternoon, the answer arrived in in an 80-lb. mop-headed boy who decided to face his two-wheeled bike for the first time. The Pterodactyl, you might recall, fears change and challenge. Just switching to a new brand of hot dogs seems suspicious to him. So the courage he mustered to tackle his bike nearly brought me to tears. I heard Hot Firefighter Husband muttering quietly, “C’mon, boy. C’mon,” because we both knew the trauma/drama that would ensue with failure.

I took a towel and wrapped it around his waist, held the ends to stabilize him and gave him a starting push. He pedaled like a madman.

Within minutes, the mission had been accomplished. For a few trips around the cul-de-sac, I ran alongside him, then gradually slowed down so that he could pull ahead. “YOU’VE GOT THIS!” I called out. “YOU CAN DO IT! YOU DID IT!”

I watched my boy fly away without me, propelling himself forward toward the unknown. He didn’t need me next to him, but he needed me there – imbuing him with power and nerve, waving, assuring him that through crashes and downhills and hairpin turns, he will be Oh. Kay.

In the wake of the bombings, please ignore the insipid commentary to “hug your kids tighter today.” Instead, teach your children that they can handle what’s thrown at them, and that you’re there to give them the strength they need to catch those unexpected lobs.

And Boston? Listen – you got this. If you look back, you’ll see the rest of us, pushing you up this hill.

“Mom,” she said. “Guess what. I dreamed we were at a hotel, and we were staying at a hotel, and we were all there, and then we left.”

“Wow,” I said. Because I’m totes supportive like that.

“BUT,” she continued, “before we left, I was in the bathtub, and there were bubbles way up to my neck.” She put her little fingers up to her neck to show me, and waited for my reaction. “Wow,” I repeated.

“AND,” she continued, “the bubbles WERE RED.”

Ew. Like blood? That’s what jumped to mind.

“And I couldn’t get out of the bubbles,” she said, quivering just a tiny bit. She stood there in her Hello Kitty nightie scratching her tangled hair with dirty fingernails. I picked her up and she wrapped her legs around my waist, and I imagined her stuck in a hotel bathtub full of red bloody bubbles. Where was I? Why wasn’t I pulling her out of the tub? Combining all of the heavy themes here, I consulted an online dream interpretation guide and learned that my little girl subconsciously needs to supplement her daily routine with more fun and merriment, which should help bring a sense of renewal and purpose to her life. Also, she must soon confront a very emotional issue, as indicated by blood in the bathroom.

Later that day, she bit me really hard, which may or may not be related.

Fast forward: Last night at the gym, one of the childcare workers rushed in all freaky-outy to say she needed help getting the kids off the playground because there was a snake out there eating a baby rabbit. I was all, PHOTO OP! and ran out to see.

Yep, there he was –  a big old corn snake, or maybe a rat snake – curled up with a furry little ball sticking out of its mouth. Awful, but sort of cool, like a real life nature show right there at the YMCA.

“There’s the mama bunny right over there watching,” said a co-worker. Okay, really? Please say no.

But it was true, and it was ghastly. There sat Mama Rabbit, up on her hind legs, just a few yards away from us underneath the swing set. She wasn’t twitching or acting skittish like rabbits do – she was just perched there, black eyes trained on the bottom of the bush where her baby was being digested. It was one of the saddest fucking scenes I’ve ever witnessed.

After a while we retrieved a pool net with a long handle, scooped up the snake and threw him into the woods. Mama Rabbit slowly hopped away.

“That’s horrible! Why didn’t you stop it?” said my friend K. when I told her about the incident. “One time I saw a snake and a squirrel going back and forth. The snake was trying to get the squirrel’s babies. I threw a ball at it.”

Well. Hopefully by today the mama rabbit has forgotten all about it. Bunnies aren’t that smart, right? Say right.

Anyway, I feel a tiny bit sad that I didn’t save that baby from being eaten in full view of its mother, and it made me remember the Tyrant’s dream, and right then I promised myself that if I ever find my daughter in a hotel bathtub drowning in bloody red bubbles, I will wrench that child from harm’s way immediately. Even if she bites me.