I’m Superstitious But My Kids Are Notmarinka
I am superstitious. Not the swinging a dead chicken over my head superstitious, but the spit over my shoulder when a black cat crosses my path/ knock wood superstitious. Do you knock wood? You should really start. Because it can’t hurt, unless you knock too hard and then you’ll just have a bruised knuckle, but no one’s ever died of that yet. And now I have to knock wood because the last thing I need right now is death by bruised knuckle.
But back to me.
Yes, I’m superstitious but I sort of keep it to myself because I don’t want to confuse my kids. They wouldn’t understand, I don’t think, why I do certain things.
But this week we are invited to attend an Election Night party with our friends, and I am not going. Because I don’t want to jinx the election. I bet you’re surprised to know that I have such amazing power.
“Why can’t we go to the party?” they ask and I tell them that they can, but that I’ll be staying home.
“How come?” they want to know and I’m not sure what to say. Because I want them to belong to this New World of Logic and Reason and Science and yet, I would no more go to an election night party before Romney concedes than I would walk under a ladder.
At the end I tell them.
“I’m just worried that that we’ll be celebrating and our candidate won’t win,” I tell them.
And they surprise me. Because they don’t laugh or look at me like I’m crazy. Instead they ask, “Well, won’t you want to be with your friends if you’re sad?” And that’s a good point. Because of course, I do.
But I’m not falling for it.
I’m staying home.
Photo credit: MorgueFile
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