Gert is a worrier. She worries about everything, from fires to tornados to alien invasion. Nothing is too impractical to cause her to fret. I have no idea where she got this, because I am a solid rock of sureness and determination. I, for one, am never worried about anything and I have never (EVER!) woken up seven times in an hour to ensure that the front door is locked because there could be a roving band of angry attention-whore bloggers, to whom I haven’t reciprocated links to because I honestly don’t give a shit, who might try to break in and tattoo their .blahblah.com URL on my forehead.
An example: Lately she is convinced that Chris and I will up and leave. Not get a divorce, or die. But literally look at one another and decide that it isn’t worth it, abandon our children and all of our possessions and take to the road in search of enlightenment and dispensing Kung Fu justice while defending the weak in the Old West.
While, at times when the girls are in a screaming match over who gets to watch the new Cheetah Girls movie on the Tivo for the fortieth time I might secretly wish I was an alcoholic playing basketball with my cirrhotic liver at the local dive bar, where the desperation is as quiet as the atmosphere, but I have never actually considered disappearing on my family.
Gert doesn’t care. After all, an irrational fear by definition lacks rationality. In fact, she has so much irrational fear that she told us that, if we do indeed go to Disney World next summer that she won’t ride It’s a Small World because she doesn’t do boats. Why? There is exactly a .0000000000000000000000000001 chance that it could spring a leak and we’d all drown in the murky water of all nations. (Never mind the fact that I believe that those little dolls are actually cyborgs who are trying to brainwash us all. That doesn’t bother her.)
Yesterday she was at school.
“We had a fire drill today,” she said.
“Really,” we answered. “How as that?”
“Fine. We all went outside. My legs were a little shaky though.”
I can picture her, too. Her teacher probably told her that there would be a fire drill and that they would practice their safety plan. In Gert’s head, what this meant was they were lighting the school on fire and they would all flee in panic, possibly losing a few members of their class to the flaming carnage.
“Hey,” I said, “now you know what to do in case of a fire! That’s the best thing to have, is the knowledge.”
“Yeah,” Chris added, “because knowledge is power.”
”Uh huh,” I kept up, “Because the more you know . . . “
“Absolutely,” Chris said, “Because knowing is half the battle.”
By the time we finished quoting the 80s educational programs and public service announcements of our youth, Gert was long gone. I called to her. She was in the basement.
“What are you doing down there,” I asked.
“Digging.”
“Um, why?”
“Dad, Iran is inching closer to having nuclear weapons with every day and we can’t just ignore another rogue, anti-American state with weapons of mass destruction pointed right at us. The dude from North Korea is crazy, but this new Iranian president is just plain scary. You may be a pacifist and believe that we can all sort out our problems through hugs and Tron: The Video Game tournaments, but I’m a realist. Now, would you please make yourself useful and hand me those MREs I got from the Army Surplus?”
