If His Myers-Briggs Type Indicator Assessment Doesn't Show Intuition as a Dominant Function, I'll Eat My Hat

I called my parents' house this morning, hoping to arrange a date with my dad's pick-up truck to do some furniture-shopping. And I was also secretly hoping he'd have some time to talk financial issues with me.

But Dad wasn't home. My mom answered the phone, and when she asked how I was doing, I had to tell her. (I can't lie to my mother. She almost always finds out anyway.)

Mom: "How are you?"

Me: "Oh, pretty good. But I looked at the budget this morning, and I'm feeling kind of like, 'Aah! How am I ever going to be able to buy anything ever again?!""

I didn't hear my mom's reply, because a little voice interjected, "Don't worry, Mommy."

Westley didn't look up from the game he was playing at my feet. He just pressed his cheek into my shin for a moment, and went on playing.

I told my mother what Westley had said, and then leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "Thank you, buggy. Everything's okay. I'm not really worried, bud. I'm just thinking about some Mommy stuff."

Thinking I was now clear to have a (short) adult conversation, I turned my attention back to the phone. Except that the little voice at my feet started singing:

"Baby don't worry...'bout a thing/'cause every little thing...gonna be all right."

After I picked my jaw up off my bra (my two-year-old is singing Bob Marley, ohmygodohmygod toocutecan'tbreathe!), I told Westley what a sweet, dear guy he is.

This is exactly what I needed to hear today. Thank you for reminding me, punky.

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