Welcome to my little ol' blog. I'll be upfront about it: I don't blog very often any more. If you found your way here because you read my book "Trailer Life," have a gander! But it's easier to keep up with me on Instagram or on my Facebook page. I have this long, drawn out theory on why I'm a terrible blogger, but that is a story for another day. Enjoy the ramblings of my life from the last 8 years or so.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

"I'm Sorry, Mom."

You know this is never a good start to a conversation. Especially when it's Ed.

A week or two ago, we made a quick trip into our favorite desert town. My somewhat new, but heavily used, Mazda 5 gave me some weird problems. When I pulled up to three different stop signs, the CD player turned off, and all my warning lights came on. Then, when pulling into the WalMart parking lot, I lost my power steering for about a second. I parked, grateful we were at least at WalMart, where they have bathrooms and sell about everything you could ever ask for. Anyway, nothing ever came about with the car. I made it home, it hasn't done it since.

As we were driving to our bigger favorite town the other day, Ed says:

"Mom, I'm sorry. Really, really, sorry Mom. I didn't mean to do it."

I turn off the music. I'm not feeling surprised, but rather VERY curious.

"What are you sorry about, Ed?"

"Well, last Saturday I pulled some wires." Now I'm nervous.

"Which wires did you pull, Ed?"

"Well, they were some wires on your car. I did it last Saturday, and I think that's why your car stopped working at WalMart." (What?!?)

"Ed, which wires did you pull? Where were they?"

"Oh, just on your car. Maybe underneath? Or on the side? I don't know. I'm so sorry Mom."

This is where I say "Don't touch any wires, ever (young man with first and middle and last names used), because wires are dangerous and can hurt you. The weird thing is, he's LYING. He was making it up. There are no wires to touch on my car. It's so low to the ground, NO ONE can get under there. I know Ed can't, because once there was a toy of his under my car and he TRIED to get it, but couldn't. He sometimes apologizes for random things that happened "last Saturday." Making conversation? Guilty conscience? Practicing for the future?

I'm not sure.

But it makes me nervous.

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