Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo came back from lunch to find messages on his various electronic communications devices from Mrs. R.  They simply said, “Call me, please.”

This drives me nuts because it always makes my stomach lurch:  The message could be anything from “I’m at the store, any dinner requests?” to “Oh my God, Middle Gel has just been eaten by sharks!”

I figure it’s not something bad, but I don’t know until I’ve actually made contact.  And in that time lag, I age somewhat faster.


UPDATE:  Ol’ Robbo did not throw out that line about Middle Gel and sharks at random.  She’s diving down in the Keys this week, and if a shark attack is a remote possibility, I still think there’d be something wrong with me as a Dad if it wasn’t at least lurking somewhere at the back of my head.

So when I spotted this item today about a California college kid killed by tiger sharks while snorkeling in the Bahamas, yeah, that didn’t really help much.

The Mothe used to tell me, when I complained about her fussing, that you never, ever stop worrying about your kids.  What you worry about may change, but the fact that you worry doesn’t.

True.  True.