In a few hours, we will be off to Mayo for my six-month checkup with Dr. H. People seem a little alarmed at first when I tell them we're going to Mayo, but this is just a checkup. We like to sit down at talk with Dr. H at least once every six months. Now that I know Spike is headed back down (or at least stable), it shouldn't be too scary. We're taking WCK with us this time, and Jay's parents will meet us in Rochester to look after her while Jay and I are at the appointment. All I need is a blood draw this time: NO PEE POD! Woo hoo! I never got one in the mail, anyway, and it's not listed on my schedule. If it was a clerical error, I'm not going to correct it.
On the way to Rochester, we'll stop at my sister's house for a visit. I've been informed that we'll be attending a surprise birthday party for Pepper. Who is Pepper?
Is it wise to throw a surprise party for someone who usually reacts to surprises by peeing on the rug? I'm not sure, but it's not my rug. My sister loves to plan dangerous surprise parties. A couple of years ago, she planned a huge surprise party for our mom, who has a history of heart problems. Some people questioned the wisdom of jumping out and screaming "Surprise!" at a cardiac patient, but the party was a huge success and it did not kill Mom.
In other news, WCK still talks nonstop about Neighbor Boy, but he seems to have lost interest in her. Apparently, her playhouse (now home to a thriving daddy-long-leg colony) is no longer a big attraction for him, so he doesn't pay a whole lot of attention to WCK. We sit in the playhouse every afternoon, fighting off daddy long legs and watching him bounce on his backyard trampoline, oblivious. I imagine this situation is going to reverse itself when she is 18 and stunningly beautiful and can't spare a minute for him. Of course, at the rate we are going, she will still not be potty trained at age 18, but that will only add to her mystique.
I imagine Neighbor Boy throwing rocks at our windows, screaming like Marlon Brando in Streetcar on our lawn. In this fantasy, he is still wearing his Spider-Man outfit and bike helmet.
"Listen, Neighbor Boy," I'll say, as the rocks whiz past, "you should have come over to play Duck, Duck, Goose more often when she was three. Right now she is busy packing her things for Harvard."
Neighbor Boy will curl up in the fetal position on the lawn. Jay will need to mow around him, or at least instruct the housekeeping robots to mow around him. This is the future, after all.
And she doesn't have to go to Harvard, but WCK repeatedly tells me that she wants to be a dinosaur when she grows up. I imagine Harvard must have an excellent pre-dinosaur program.