Scene: Monday. 3:30pm or thereabouts. Stone Callis residence. Conversation between mom and 8-year-old son with whom she had horrible, raging postpartum OCD and cried every day, and knew he’d never love her, and thought she’d ruined his life and hers forever and ever.
Son: Mom, did you know there’s a dance at school tonight?
Mom: I told you about it a month ago when the flyer came home in your backpack. You said you didn’t want to go to the Valentine’s Dance.
Son: No, you didn’t tell me.
Mom: Yes, I did.
Son: No, you didn’t. You never told me.
Mom: Yes, I did tell you. And you weren’t interested in going.
Mom: OK, but you really did tell me you didn’t want to go. I threw the flyer away.
Son: Well … ummmm … well … uh …
Mom: Yes, sweetie?
Son: Would you like to go to the dance with me tonight?
Mom: (heart melting into puddles of rich caramel goo) Me?! You want to take me to the dance tonight?
Son: (smiling with a smile that looks sheepish and embarrassed and completely adorable) Yes. I want you and me to go to the dance.
Mom: (furiously surfing web to find out when dance starts; 5pm!; OMG it’s almost 4 o’clock!; furiously emailing husband to say GET YOUR ASS HOME!!!! cause my son just asked me out on a date and you need to leave work NOW!!!) Oh sweetie. I would love to go with you to the dance.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, postpartum OCD. You don’t hold anything over me anymore.