Sorry this didn’t go up first thing this morning. Things have been so hectic and run together around here that I had a brain spasm and forgot what day it was.
Part of the tension — enjoyable for a change, but tension never the less– was waiting to hear the results of the ultrasound to learn the gender of my first great-grandchild. Oh, don’t worry. The grandchildren haven’t stopped coming either. Was informed last week that grandchild number fifteen is on the way. The children at our family reunions will be as confused as my generation was. My mother and I ended up pregnant at the same time. After I’d had my first child. So my baby sister has a niece older than she is. My baby sister and children grew up close, and they played that breezy “Oh. My aunt is here to check me out of class” scheme to the hilt in high school.
Anyway, we were hoping to even the imbalance of girl/boy ratio but got no cooperation. The first great-grandchild is another boy. With only four girls out of fifteen grandchildren, people often remark the girls probably have to band together against the boys. It’s a little embarrassing to hide behind your hand and mumble, “No, it’s usually the boys forced to fight back to back, defending against one of the girls.” In fact the last birthday party we attended one of the neighbor kids pushed a smaller child down. Waded in to stop a granddaughter from ‘taking up’ for the little one. She had two older, larger boys on the ground and was working on the third by the time I got over there to break it up. But, damn, she had good form! Kept her fists up to protect herself and good footwork for smooth stick-and-retreat action. Jab,jab, cross. Dance out. Dance in and jab, jab, uppercut. Side step and apply an elbow to the side of the head. Feint, recover and jamb a knee to the . . . Okay, okay! I may have taken my time getting over there, but there was cake on the picnic table. And since the hulking teen bullies picked on an eight-year-old they deserved to get whipped by a girl!
Think the painted nails, and meticulous make-up on an already gorgeous face had the aggressors dismissing her as ‘just a girl’ when she tried initially to adress them verbally. They should have known they were in deep poop when she had the foresight to save her new heels by kicking them off prior to addressing the situation by hand.
People often ask how I can write such believable fight scenes. Sigh. Please re-read preceding paragraph. Probably because I’ve refereed so many testosterone spikes? Or stopping lone females from dampening testosterone spikes with the efficiency of a ten-pound hammer to a thumb tack? Or because Hubby contributed his genetic disposition since he (before his back injury) was the type to water ski up and down the New Orleans canals in January– because the fish weren’t biting and they had to do something since they dragged the boat out there. Or took trophies during Poker Runs for being youngest rider in the motorcycle club? Or his father before him was into racing automobiles, boats and motorcycles? Or because one of my boys was bouncing for a club on Bourbon Street when he was only 17? During Mardi Gras?
My own insatiable love of weapons and the outdoors probably didn’t contribute much calm either, I’m sure.
I’m convinced that Dare-the-Devil gene is well ensconced in the pool, splashing around just waiting for a chance to co-join to create another human who will grin while shoving a handful of genetic water at you.
So I guess we have to run high on males. The females just end up being too damn mean!
Keep writing folks! We have a conference coming up and you want to have your best ready to pitch to the agents and editors!