I am Going to Dedicate My Book to My Husband

I wake up on Saturday morning and announce to Husbandrinka that the first order of business is that I am going to write two pages of my MS.

“That’s good,” he says.  “That’s how real writers do it.”

“How do you even know that?” I ask.  Because Husbandrinka is very Kelcey when it comes to reading.

“I went to college and I’ve been to Victor Hugo’s house in Paris,” he explains, although I’m playing fast and loose with the definition of explanation.

“If you write 2 pages a day for a whole year, you know what you’ll have?” He pauses before continuing. “Too many pages and your book will be unsaleable.”

“Oh.”

“But you should just get it all out, and then go back to edit.”

“That’s a good idea, but I have to call my parents sometimes, because I don’t know some things.”

“Like what?”

“Like how I had an illiterate nanny.”

“Illiterate?”

“Yes.”

“Really illiterate?”

“Yes.  It wasn’t that uncommon.  My great-grandmother was illiterate, too.”

“She was?”

“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“My mother’s grandmother.”

“I was going to say. No Jew has ever been illiterate” (editor’s note: Papa is Jew, Mama is not.  Also, there is no editor, but I didn’t want to call it Marinka’s note.)

“Anyway, my illiterate nanny was my grandmother’s patient.  You know, my grandmother the psychiatrist.”

“Your illiterate grandmother was a psychiatrist?”

“No, papa’s mother was a psychiatrist,” I tell him.  “Mama’s grandmother was illiterate.”

“Oh.”
“And my nanny was her patient. You know, back in the Soviet Union, people didn’t seek out therapy because their lives were unfulfilling.  They got sent to a psychiatrist because they were insane.”

“Not even Jews?”
“Not even Jews what?”
“Didn’t Jews go to therapy just because?”
“No.  The Soviet Union in the 60s was not like the Upper West Side in the 80s.  Besides my nanny wasn’t Jewish.”

“I know, she was illiterate.”

At this point, my daughter came in, apparently having overheard part of our conversation.

“Was your nanny crazy?” she asks.

“No, she wasn’t crazy, she was just-”

“Different?” my daughter asks.  Because we all know that different is the socially acceptable crazy.

“No,” I laugh for no apparent reason.  “She was just older.  She was older than I was.”

Yes, I told my daughter that from the age of six months to five years old, I was being taken care by a nanny who was older than I was.

Talk about different.

_______________________

That was Saturday. On Sunday, my daughter and I were in for a real treat.  Read about it here.

If you are new here, did you know that I was one of The Mouthy Housewives? It’s true.  Today, I am giving a mom advice about her young daughter who wants to see New Moon.  Behold the wisdom.

One year ago ...

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