It’s done. Last week my husband and I packed the car, loaded up the Girl-child, and transported her to her new life at college. Such stress does funny things to your hearing.
On the road:
What I said: “Why don’t I drive?”
What I probably meant: “Take some time to relax. I’ll get us through the worst of the traffic.”
What he heard: “You’re going to kill us all, you crazy rage-monster!”
At Target buying last-minute things:
What I said: “I think we should get her the blue pillow.
What I probably meant: “The teal will brighten the place up. “
What he heard: “The dog has better taste than you, and she’s color blind.
Touring campus:
What I said: “Do you want some coffee?”
What I probably meant: “I could use a pick-me-up. Does anyone else want one?”
What he heard: “You are a giant, Debbie-downer turd. Please drink some caffeine so you can stop being a turd. Stat.”
On the way home:
What I said: “The speed limit is 70 now!”
What I probably meant: “Yay! We’re finally out of the construction zone!”
What he heard: “You drive like my grandma.”
On the road:
What I said: “Put a Clif bar in your cakehole.”
What I probably meant: “Put a Clif bar in your cakehole. NOW! You’re driving me nuts!”
What he heard: Yeah, okay. He had to get one right.
At home:
What I said: “She’ll be okay. She’s ready for this.”
What he heard: “I never loved her like you do. I should have raised show rats.”
What I probably meant: “I miss her, too.”
Me and my Girl-child
Sweet Girl-child, don’t you even worry. You’re going to do great! And we’ll be okay, too.
Becoming Cliche 