Mark came home last night bearing a trophy. It seems he came in first in the slowest category. Marguerite shook his hand and congratulated him. That's admirable. Then again, she's 4 and doesn't really understand yet. I am 34 and can make a federal case out of the most trivial issue. I lay on the guilt trip. I'm really good at that. Without giving too much information on what it was all about, I pronounce myself the right (and self-righteous) side in this. I am, however, not the fair side because you see, I have no intention of letting you give him the benefit of the doubt. I can do it as it's my blog. And I have crazy pregnant hormones so I can be excused (arguably).
No, it's not anything serious. Oh but guilt trips are so much fun! And I'm not one to be subtle about it. I lay it on quite thick, hee hee.
He made the mistake of telling me that he spun at one point and that good thing that it was a race track, so no biggie. I said that it just fortified my conviction about all this, "... think of this picture: your daughter who every night valiantly tries to stay up waiting for you, bolting upright every time she hears a car stopping, the gate creaking open, the front door chimes tinkling... and she'd continue doing that even if you couldn't possibly be coming home because you had skidded to your senseless death on the Sabbath you were supposed to keep HOLY while you were on some jolly racing spree!!!" He argued that he was actually very thoughtfully considering his family the entire time because if he wasn't, then he would have come in first in the fastest category (yeah right!). As you can see, no guilt trip (or reason) can penetrate flippancy. That's not about to stop me though.