Mrs. Crabface and Rainbows


 I am not particularly fond of the puppy when it begins barking at four in the morning to let me know he has to pee and poop. I'm pretty sure the first coherent thoughts that circle through my brain are rather sinful. But I do get up, and I think that's the important part of the story.

Hugo (the puppy) is a little fluffy sweater pup. He can barely wag his tail and remain standing on all fours. At four in the morning, this adorable sight is enough to cause me to murder. I snatch him up, place him on his pad and say, "Go poop." He just blinks at me, lays down on the pad and sighs. "Poop!" I demand. He blinks again.

So I sit down in front of the space heater and wait. This is when rather strange things come to mind. I suddenly remember my mother looking at me and saying, "You know, it's really a miracle you didn't end up brain damaged!"

....Thanks mom.

You see, I was a preemie, and apparently in so much distress that I was born black (more like a deep, DEEP purple). My mom had been telling this story when it appeared she suddenly realized I should have been brain damaged from this. "But I wonder," I say to Hugo who is still laying on the pad, "if she really is surprised."

I am now wondering if my mom was crossing her fingers, ever vigilant to mark off my milestones as I grew, paranoid that if I didn't accomplish them, the proof of brain damage would be evident. So the first time I rolled over, I imagine her jumping up and down, pumping a fist in the air. The first time I peed in the toilet, she would have been doing a touchdown dance like running back Ahman Green in 2004. When I figured out how to count to 100 (with the help of my Uncle Matt) and understood my left from my right (thanks to Aunt Angie) my mom was down on her knees thanking the Lord that all of my brain seemed to be functioning just fine.

So far.

In second grade, I think my poor mama had her first panic attack. My teacher, who my mom dubbed Mrs. Crabface, told my mom I probably wouldn't succeed very far (who says something like that?). Hence, the reason my mom didn't like her. But here's the deal: IT WASN'T MY FAULT!! "It was the rainbows," I tell Hugo, who still lays on the pee pad. He blinks and lets out a harrumph. 

Remember when the teacher used to pass out the blank writing paper and tell you to number it 1-10 for you spelling test? Then she would call out the first word and use it in a sentence and you would write the word? Yeah? Well, I had managed to write my name and number my paper before I sat quietly, patiently waiting for Mrs. Crabface to say the first word. As I waited, I noticed the rainbows hanging from the ceiling. The next thing I know, the kids are passing their finished tests forward. I panicked. What in the world just happened?! She never said a word!!! But the other kid's tests were completed. SERIOUSLY!!! WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!?!


So I swallowed back my panic and passed my test in with the others. At recess she called me in and asked why I didn't fill in my test. I just stared at her. How was I supposed to explain that the entire universe transported me out of the classroom during the test; that all of time halted for me while it went on for others; that I had NO IDEA WHAT HAPPENED except that I was admiring the rainbows?

So I shrugged my shoulders and mumbled something akin to, "I don't know, please don't paddle me (because there WAS a paddle)." I guess that's about the time she had a meeting with my mom.

Poor mom.

"But look at me now, Hugo. I'm thirty years-old and...rocking it."

Hugo poops, turns around and immedetly tries to eat it. "No! We don't EAT poop!" I pick him up, get toilet paper and dispose of his poop. "Who is the brain damaged one here??"

The thirty year-old woman talking to her dog at four in the morning, picking up his poop, and thinking about those dang rainbows, you might ask?

XP (that's my sticking my tongue out at you).

Pffft. I'm artistic. I like rainbows hanging from ceilings. So what?

Sigh.

Sorry mom.



PS: No, I didn't not actually sit and talk with Hugo about all of this. Only some of it. Most of this went through my mind after I crawled back to bed and couldn't go to sleep. Also, yes. I did in fact google to find a good football player reference for touchdown dance. I have no idea, whatsoever, what he did in 2004. I bet he has some brain damage though.

PSS: Yes, I do tell this story often. It still makes me mad...and puzzles the heck out of me. WHAT IN THE WORLD HAPPENED?!?!?!

~Gia

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