across the universe

I could tell you about Martin's parent-teacher conference. During that meeting, we heard about Martin's progress at school, how he likes to role play stories, and the way he's making friends.

Or I could tell you about my successful effort to get Martin's teeth brushed with no fighting by distracting him with a long soliloquy on pajamas with pigs on them.

But because my eye hurts, I'll tell you about that. A few minutes ago, I was on my way to an event-less bedtime transition. Martin only needed to remove his sweater and crawl into the laundry basket that has served as his bed the past several weeks. Martin did remove his sweater. He then swung it behind his back and brought it forward straight into my face. The bulk of it hit me in the right eye and (because I am small and fairly wimpy) sent me onto the floor.

Needless to say, the good parent-teacher conference and the happy teeth-brushing memories vanished. I was furious. I was livid. I was seething at a five-year-old that hardly understands English. What are you supposed to do in that situation?

I sometimes want a conference with the universe. If Martin's teacher can call me in and report on his progress, then I want to hold the universe to account for the kid it delivered to me on May 14, 2004. Not that I want to give him back. But I just want someone other than me to have to care and to take responsibility.

Or maybe I wish Martin could take a swing at the universe instead of at me.