Sometimes a Sandwich is just a Sandwich

Richie and J.J. and I got home from the park today and a book was in our mailbox...Murder 101. Being the reasonable person that I am, I immediately assumed that someone wanted to kill me.

Because, you know, most murder plots start with a book in the mailbox.

It turned out it was from my mom. She had even shown me the book two days ago and said, "I am going to give this book--Murder 101--to you," and I still didn't know what was going on when I saw it in the mailbox. She had removed the cover, so it looked different. Still, it made me realize how I always imagine the worst case scenario.

It's like when Justin and I came home one night and there was a sandwich in our mailbox.

I wondered, "Did someone walk by eating a sandwich and use our mailbox as a trashcan? Or are our friends sharing their leftovers with us."

And then I narrowed my eyes and thought, "Or is someone trying to poison us?"

It's always your friends leftovers. Take my word for it.

And the plastic bag or cardboard box in the middle of the street? Do you always swerve to miss it? Because baby bunnies might be inside? Yeah me, too, but I always see it blow away and it's totally empty.

The moral of the story is things are seldom as tragic as you think. And who better to remind you of this than your children, the most melodramatic people on the face of the earth.

Richie, for instance, burst into tears Tuesday when he suspected that I voted a second time. "You voted again? Without me?" he wailed.

This morning, I spent two and a half hours writing a story that took just one second to vanish off the face of the earth.

"No. No. No. Come back!" I yelled.

"Well, at least you have your family," Johnny said.

Yes. That was true.

"Just call your boss and tell her it will be late," he added.

"Tell her you want the day off," Richie chimed in.

In a panic, I rebooted and shut down the computer and pressed a bunch of buttons. Finally, I stopped looking for it.

"I'm frustrated because I woke up early to write that story," I explained to the boys, who were looking at each other, like, "Can you believe this broad?"

"Well, you could work during the day, you know," Johnny said.

"But then I couldn't stay home with you guys," I said.

"Well, you need to do what your life tells you to do," he said.

Finally, I conceded that this wasn't the end of the world.

"No that would be meteors hitting the middle of the earth," Johnny said.

Conversations like this always amuse me. Especially since last week, our conversation went more like this:

Johnny: gagging

Me: What? Do you have a hair in your mouth?

Johnny: No. I ate a booger that was gross. Most of them are sweet.

Me: The kids at school will make fun of you for eating your boogers.

Johnny: No, they don't.

Me: So you're telling me they make fun of kids for wearing longsleeve shirts but not for eating their own boogers.

Johnny: Yes.

Unbelievable. The lunacy in schools today.

But you know what? The kids were right. I never found the story, but rewriting it wasn't hard. Nobody is threatening us with the old book-in-the mailbox scare. And meteors are not hitting the earth. Not giant ones anyway. Things are never as bad as they seem. A sandwich in the mailbox is just a snack. Nothing else.