Transplanted Life
Sunday, April 25, 2004
Tha Yankees lose... tha Yankees lose...
Hey, I'm excited. Sometimes good things do happen. I don't expect the Yankees to not hit all year, but then again, I don't expect Nomar, Trot, and BK to be out all year, either.

Carter's still freaking out over weird stuff, though. I guess I should try to be more sensitive, but it's hard to know sometimes what's going to set him off. Like this morning - I went out to get a paper and some bagels before he woke up. It was, however, significantly chillier and windier than it was yesterday, so when I get back, I decide to ditch the shorts and put on some long pants. Carter's in the bathroom, though, so I just grab a pair of jeans out of the dresser and do it in the main room. My cut-offs are on the floor and I'm just about to step into the jeans when Carter walks out and is all like, hey, keep it to yourself. I tell him he's seen me in my panties before, and, besides, it's a small apartment and we're not going to be able to stay out of each other's way very easily. This, however, is mere logic, and thus powerless against his rock-solid certainty that I'm trying to remind him that he's in a girl's body and that even though I know who he was, I am aggressively trying to impress upon him that I think of him as a girl. Because, hey, girls casually change clothes in front of each other.

I point out that ex-lovers do, too, but he picks up on that "ex" part - I would, admittedly, have been better off saying nothing - and starts crying because even though he knew it couldn't work between us any more, he hadn't had the single moment where he realized it yet. Then he starts hitting the walls because he's mad about crying, and I finally have to grab him because he's re-opened some of the raw parts of his hands (the stuff the cops call "defensive wounds" on Law & Order) and is bleeding. I try just holding him and telling him things will be all right, but he pushes away and slams the bathroom door behind him again.

I refrain from saying that this is exactly what teenage girls do. I'm almost tempted to call Mrs. Haskins - it's stupid, because subjectively, Carter and I are 29 and 30, respectively, even if our bodies are 25 and 18. But today I felt like he needs a mother more than anything else, and I am just not cut out to fill that role.

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Note: This blog is a work of fantasy; all characters are either ficticious or used ficticiously. The author may be contacted at