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My maternal grandmother had thirteen children.  Having that many kids calms a person.  There’s no more freaking out over every little boo-boo.

Grandmother, so one story goes, sat down with the newspaper and a cup of tea every afternoon and would not be budged until she was done, no matter what.  One of the kids would come running in from the backyard, screaming, “I fell off the swing set!”

Grandmother wouldn’t look up from the newspaper.  “Are you bleeding?” she’d ask.

“Yeeeees!  I’m bleeeeeding!” would scream whoever it was.

Grandmother would take another sip of tea.  “Mmm-hmm, how much?” Still reading the paper.

“I have to get stitches!!” the kid would scream.

“Go get a band-aid.”  Still not looking up; taking another sip of tea.  The kid got a band-aid, everything was better, and Grandmother got to finish her reading and tea.

My point is two-fold: first, kids’ boo-boos are almost never as bad as they seem; second, tea is important.

The first time Geeklet #1 took a bad tumble and hurt his foot — long story short — SuperDad took him to the hospital.  That’s how we were back then, all right?  We freaked out over Every. Little. Thing.  We thought his foot was broken.

It wasn’t, of course; just bruised.  SuperDad and I were left feeling slightly sheepish and the Geeklet seemed smug.  I wondered if he knew all along that there wasn’t anything seriously wrong, and just wanted us to figure it out for ourselves.

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They thought I was hurt. Parents are hilarious!

Several years and several kids later, SuperDad and I have taken a lesson from my Grandmother and learned how to relax.  Not every bump and bruise is worthy of a trip to the hospital.  Most can be fixed with a band-aid, or even just a hug.  And now, on to the more entertaining subject of drugs.

How many moms would go stark raving mad without their cuppa tea every day?  Or their cuppa joe, or their can of Coke?  In fact, that’s why the lunatic asylums of the 1800’s were always at maximum occupancy; those women, for whatever reason, simply weren’t getting their daily dose of whatever gently stimulating drug of choice every day.  That’s right, they were druggies in withdrawal and it messed them up so bad that they never got over it.

Don’t act surprised.  Hey, this is America, we’re all druggies here!

I couldn’t survive without half a pot of coffee a day.  I don’t go to Starbucks; I actually own a coffee maker and I brew it up myself.  I like the good stuff: Cafe du Monde Coffee with Chicory is the best coffee in the world.  I take it with half-and-half, no sugar, and heaven help you if you ever get in between me and my mug in the morning.  

Yes, this is definitely an addiction, and if I ever don’t get my daily fix I’ll be reduced to a pile of misfiring synapses weeping on the floor, completely unable to function.  How come only alcoholics and hard-core druggies get to go to Betty Ford? 

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