caught him a time or two, but I never say anything about it because I’ve done it myself. Anything that makes Mitzi and Harry a little less hyperactive is fine with me.
“I’ve learned not to attempt to figure out what Mitzi is up to,” I said. “Frankly, I’m more curious about Harry.”
My boss, Harry Harrison, is a software genius and our office mascot. Okay, Harry’s not our mascot, exactly, but his hair is. Two or three years ago he discovered the curly perm and he’s resembled a Chia Pet ever since.
“I think he’s depressed,” I murmured, more to myself than to Kim.
“Harry? Don’t you think I’d recognize it if Harry were depressed?”
Kim has battled depression much of her life. She now has it under control with medication and lots of exercise to get those endorphins moving.
“Wouldn’t you be depressed if your claim to fame was being washed down the shower drain?” I persisted. “Have you looked, really looked, at Harry’s head lately?”
Understanding dawned on Kim’s pixielike features. “His thinning hair, you mean?”
“Thinning? Kim, he’s only six strands away from a comb-over.”
“Shades of Rudy Giuliani—you’re right. No wonder he skulks into the office wearing that wool felt hat that makes him look like an Indiana Jones wannabe.”
“We need to be nice to Harry. My own dad’s hair is starting to thin, and he’s very sensitive about it. Mother caught him wearing a baseball cap in the shower last week. She says he can’t stand to see the reflection of his head in the mirror.”
And that’s only one of the many weird aging games my parents play. Dad now insists he’s in male menopause. What it really is is revenge for what my mother put him through when she was “of a certain age.”
“‘…vanity of vanities! All is vanity,’” Kim intoned.
“You can say that again. Harry and Dad may be prime examples, but look at all the silly, pointless things we’ve done….”
“The grapefruit diet?”
I never did get into that. I was in love with a cabbage soup diet that produced enough gas to replace fossil fuels.
“Remember the Approved Veggie Diet? The only ‘approved’ vegetables were arugula, chicory, bok choy, kohlrabi, leeks and dandelion greens.”
We waxed nostalgic about the smoothie diet—best made with ice cream; the metabolism-revving diet—basically seasoning everything with cayenne pepper; and “EEAT”—Ecclesiastical Eaters Anonymous Training, a diet group at church that actually worked.
Kim rubbed her brow. “What does my weight matter when Wesley is etching new creases here every day? No one cares about my figure when they see the Grand Canyon on my forehead.”
“‘Can any of you by worrying add a single day to your life span?’” I quoted, knowing just how crazy she is about that naughty little buzz saw of a boy. “But back to Harry. If food is the way to a man’s heart, then good hair is the way to his ego. If Harry actually goes bald, he’ll have to start therapy.”
“Men are definitely wired differently from women,” Kim agreed. “I see it in Wesley already. He and his dad spend hours piling blocks into pyramids and knocking them down. They laugh and high-five each other like they’ve just invented football. Yet when I ask Kurt to vacuum the floor, he says ‘Didn’t I just do that last month?’ as if he detests repetition in any form.”
“Knocking things down and picking things up are two entirely different concepts. One is male, the other, female. Even Chase says so.”
Chase. Two years of marriage, and I love him more than ever. God really knew what He was doing when He put us together. It doesn’t hurt that his sandy hair is shot with gold, his eyes are an inky Crayola blue, and his physique…There’s only one way to describe it—hunky. Oh, yes, and he’s crazy about me, and a doctor besides. This morning he sent me yellow roses for no reason at all except that he loves me.
“Now you’re thinking about him,” Kim observed grumpily. “You’ve got that moonstruck look on your face again.”
“And you don’t feel that way about Kurt anymore?” I teased.
“Of course I do.” Kim’s attention drifted from me to some private thought of her own. “I wish…”
“Wish what?” I held the candy dish under her nose to refocus her with the scent of chocolate.
“Kurt and I have been talking lately—” Kim reached in and took a piece of Dove dark chocolate, fortifying herself for a heavy-duty conversation “—about having another baby.”
My stomach took a roller-coaster ride from peak to valley and up again.
“Wesley will love a baby brother or sister! That’s wonderful….”
Frankly, Wesley has become a bit of a tyrant, having control as he does of two entire households—Kim’s and mine. It wouldn’t hurt a bit to have a new baby around, someone who instinctively knows how to establish a dictatorship. It may seem absurd to think of a baby as a despot, but I can’t think of an autocrat more qualified to put Wes in his place.
My excitement evaporated when I saw the expression on Kim’s face. “Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is!” she blurted, and burst into tears.
At that moment, a flurry of activity erupted as my cats, Mr. Tibble and Scram, growling and hissing, rolled together past our feet in a single absurd kitty ball.
“Ignore them,” I advised.
“Won’t they hurt themselves doing that?” Kim snuffled.
As she spoke, Mr. Tibble tired of the game and went limp, as if his bones had liquefied. Scram tumbled halfway across the room by himself before he realized he’d been abandoned, then stood up and marched off huffily, his tail straight in the air in a gesture of disdain.
I’d insulted Mr. Tibble deeply when I introduced Scram into his peaceful kingdom, but he’d taken on the kitten with aplomb, taught him who was boss and generally made Scram a being subservient to his own royalty. Just like what Mitzi tries to do with us at work.
“So tell me about this new-baby conversation,” I urged, “and why it makes you cry.”
“If we don’t hurry up, Wesley will be grown-up. I don’t want a large age gap between him and a baby brother or sister.”
There’s not much danger of being all grown-up when one still sucks his thumb, refuses to sleep without his blankie and demands Cheerios in church, but when Kim is emotional, logic flies out the window.
“What’s stopping you?”
Kim looked pained. “Kurt is worried about my health. He’s been on the Internet trying to find out if getting pregnant with my personal history of breast cancer will increase the risk of the cancer recurring.”
“And…?”
