Another typical day on the road to Utopia . . . .

SOS (our son, source of sanity) has grown into a teenager (notwithstanding that he is only 9 years old) and his idea of Sunday cuddling is watching TV on the same bed as me, seemingly miles apart.  As a Jewish mother in the true sense of the tradition, I am not happy unless I am holding a finger, a toe or a hair of my child.  In truth, I am only happy when I have an iron grip about his mid-section to keep him close and away from the dangers in . . .  um . . . er. . . our safe home.  WhatEVER.  There are wilds out there SOMEwhere.

He would really rather play that be smothered by his mother (hey, I put the “mother” in smother, I thank you to remember).  Ok, that is healthy.  To a point.  Ok, it is healthy, but hard on a mother.

Still, I crave time with him.  So, in preparation for family dinner where wine must be served, I say, “Dude, come with me to the wine store?” Because it is Sunday, the only open (and good) wine store is a half-mile away.  “Can I take my scooter?” “Sure”.  I put on my running shoes.  He is going to scooter and even though he knows to stop at crosswalks, I must sprint after him.  Yes, I am a prisoner of my tradition.  Actually, I accept and revel in my tradition of over-protection.  So, sue me.  Or, rather, just know that I have provided for a therapy fund for SOS in our wills.

So, I am sprinting after my son as we go to the wine shop. THANK G-D for the crosswalks and red lights.

Thereafter, a lazy Sunday afternoon commences (not really: I am reading work-related documents and POB (partner of blogger) is cooking her guts out).

For dinner, the usual suspects come over plus POB’s father (FOPOB) who was enticed by the apple pie POB made (from the apples of the apple-picking extravaganza).  You mean, FOPOB, you wouldn’t come otherwise?  And you wonder why I wouldn’t let you have more than two helpings of the pie.  No, no, no, no.  Nothing is going home with you, bud, until you come here just for the sake of being with family.

DOB (Dad of blogger), SOB (sister of blogger), and HOSOB (husband of SOB) round out the dinner group.  We talk about Occupy Wall Street, the GOP, Obama, Libya, Syria and whether Rick Perry “swings both ways”.  As to the latter, if he weren’t so virulently right-wing (at least now) we would not even raise the issue of how he likes to have his fun.  But, you do it, you live with it.

So, 3.5 wine drinkers, two bottles.  Before dinner.

Thank G-d for food.  And the apple pie.  Food hath charms to soothe the socialist drunk.  (No, HOSOB, I am not ONLY talking about you.  I include DOB and me in that group.)  Mostly because SOB kept lubricating the conversation with the Merlot.)

OH, Cousin Gentle!! OH, Cousin Birder?? We needed you.

And, there is a mess in the kitchen that I must clean.  I love and hate POB’s cooking.