I was up very early with the baby this morning, and after a less-than-restful night I was badly in need of a nap by 8 a.m. Scott encouraged me to go for it, so back to bed I went. I didn’t so much as open the book I’m reading (The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, a winner so far): just closed my eyes and I was out.
When Scott woke me, I could tell I’d been asleep for a good long while. “What time is it?” I mumbled, still half asleep.
That was perfect: I’d had an hour-long nap and still had plenty of time to get ready for church. I usually take the older kids to the 10:30 Mass and Scott stays home with the little ones. I got up, put in my contacts (no close calls with toothpaste this time) and was enjoying my usual breakfast of yogurt-with-almonds when Scott said something about my needing to get going if I was planning to make the 10:30.
“What do you mean?” I was asking, “I have loads of time—” when I looked at the clock for the first time and saw that it was 10:20.
“What!” I shrieked. “You said it was nine o’ clock!”
“No I didn’t,” said Scott in bewilderment. “You never asked me what time it was.”
“Yes I did!”
“Honey, no you really didn’t.” His voice was exceedingly gentle, like the tone you use with a crazy person. I could see that he thought I must have dreamed the conversation, but it had been less than ten minutes ago and I knew it had happened.
“I really did,” I persisted. “I said, ‘What time is it,’ and you said, ‘Nine.'”
Scott burst out with a laugh. “Oh! I thought you said, ‘How are the kids,’ and I said, ‘Fine!'”
In Rolls April
Art Doesn’t Always Imitate Life
Eight years ago this week