Not-so-little-R. came home from his troop meeting last night and asked, "Would I be able to go to Klondike Derby next Saturday?"
"This weekend or the weekend after?" (Side note: when I am queen of the world, after I buy normal-sized glasses for DFS [note to self: find out if that is still necessary] and electric pencil sharpeners for my high school [ditto], and after I go on television and tell people to move over to the right when they are about to run into someone on the sidewalk, I will make a law that "this weekend" means the one coming up and "next weekend" means the weekend that has another weekend in between us and it.)
"The weekend after." I open my mouth to speak and he adds, "I know that's the day before we leave for the cruise, but I thought I could probably still go, right?"
So it's official. My son has my brain, the one that looks more than twelve hours ahead. This means that he will not drive other people--okay, just people like me--crazy by not knowing that July 8 is my brother's wedding and no, we cannot go to a baptism that day.
It also means that he is prey to something I have (very recently, as in right this minute) taken to calling the ramp neurosis. This is the anxiety-inducing sense that all the future events of your life are sliding down a ramp towards you at uncontrollable speed. Some of those events are extremely heavy, or have sharp corners, or both.
When I was trying to explain to H. and S. why I decided to do the polar bear plunge, I resolved to get the ramp image out of my consciousness. S. suggested that I should try to approach life more like Guitar Hero (there's a writing no-no! employ imagery that only a tiny percentage of your tiny audience will get!): the notes are rushing toward you, but the only possible strategy is to take them one at a time.
Slow Ride. Take it easy.