Getting Juggy with It

The morning after my calendar freak out, Katie calls before heading out to take a big test. She's been studying practically non-stop for this thing, and she's frantic.

"Sweetie, you've worked very hard, done everything you can. Now you have to trust yourself and let go," I say. "If you're freaked, you can't find the right answers even when they're right there in your head."

A weird thing happens: I hear my own voice echoing inside my head, kind of like an auditory mirror. "…done everything. . .trust yourself. . .let go. . . ."

Which do you want to be, Jerri? The pot or the kettle?


When the test should be over, I call to tell Katie I transferred a little money to her account so she and and her boyfriend can treat themselves to a night out.

She's standing in front of a puppy display, a Jack Russell/Pug mix called a Jug. (Sensing her distress, Craig picked her up after class and took her to a pet store, her favorite medicine.) We trade smart-mouthed comments.

You have to get two. Then you can say, "My jugs are perky today."

Or, "My jugs are just out of control."

Or, "My jugs are really getting big."

Vintage Mom and Katie silliness. Throughout the evening she calls half-a-dozen more times:
. . . to tell me where they went to dinner and what they ate.
. . . to tell me what movie they saw.
. . ..to ask what I thought of Taylor Swift's performance at the CMA awards.
. . . to say she loves Carrie Underwood but hates the black dress.

We laugh over something or another (My jugs bounce when we run.) every time.

Letting go was an excellent suggestion.