Another example of how I make and break the rules as I see fit

There is a long-running tradition of believing in superstition in my family. For example, my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother all lived in mortal fear of El Cucuy at some point in their lives, believing he’d whisk them away in the middle of the night if they didn't behave. For years now I’ve tried to put it behind me like that bad memory involving P.E. class and accidental flatulence. For the most part, I’ve been successful. I no longer feel it’s necessary to scotch-tape a nickel to my belly during a lunar eclipse. I don’t feel like I’m cursing a baby if I admire their cuteness and don’t follow through with gently touching their head with my hand (an absolutely real belief in some circles). Black cats, ladders, the number thirteen and spilled salt mean absolutely nothing to me.

But.

There’s the eyelash issue. For some reason, the eyelash issue is exempt from my belief system. If I drop an eyelash, my kids rush to harvest it so they could press it between our thumbs, make a wish, pull the thumbs apart and see whose lucky thumb it stuck to. I could squeeze my eyes shut and PRETEND to make a wish in an effort to stay true to my non-superstitiousness. But I don’t. I actually make a wish. I wish for all the things that mothers wish for – healthy, happy children becoming healthy, happy adults, a secure future for each of them, strong teeth well into their nineties… But it really makes no difference because I never get the eyelash. I NEVER get the eyelash.

Maybe it’s because my hands are too dry. Maybe it’s because I don’t press hard enough. Maybe there is something intrinsically wrong with my thumbprint making them averse to small hairs affixing to them. It’s plausible. I’ll tell you what I DON’T believe. I don’t believe my wishes are so far-fetched that a higher power is refusing to give me the stupid eyelash.

Well. I didn’t until this past week. I had more than my fair share of eyelashes fall. I didn’t keep count, but if I had to guess, I’d say there was somewhere in the neighborhood of TEN. Enough to make me go, “Hmm… could this be the beginnings of alopecia?”

With each eyelash that fell, I had a small child run at me with a clumsy finger ready to jab at my face in their quest to get a wish easily granted. After all, Mom NEVER gets the eyelash. As of tomorrow, my husband, two smallest children and I are making a trip to Delaware. So this week’s wish has been the same with every eyelash: PLEASE let us get there and back without killing one another.

“How come you never get the eyelash, Mom?” Antonia asks after approximately the sixth one was stolen from me. “Because someone up there hates me,” I say.

And then something strange happened. An eyelash fell last night, and lucky Jonah discovered it. “Okay, Mom!! Here we GO!!” he said once he’d placed it on the tip of his thumb and readied himself for mine.I pressed my thumb into his. I made my wish. We agreed on the count of three to let go. And…. LO! I got the freaking eyelash.

“HOLY COW!” Antonia shouted. “MOM GOT HER WISH!!”

Jonah just smiled wryly. “Well, sort of,” he said.

“What do you mean ‘sort of’?!” I demanded.

“I acshully wished for YOU to get the eyelash. So… I think that means I got MY wish.”

So maybe I didn’t win fair and square after all. OR maybe Jonah’s thumbs were slightly drier than mine. Maybe I applied the EXACT amount of pressure necessary to win the prize. Whatever the case may be, I’ve chosen to take it as a sign that we’re all gonna survive this trip after all.

I’ll see you in a week or so.