The Miracle of Boringness

After 45 long minutes of juggling technical jargon around the left side of my brain, it is sore. Inflamed, trying to determine when ‘relay box DC buss 3’ is powered by ‘relay box DC buss 2’ and when it is powered by the auxilliary DC bus. The airplane I fly is built in Brazil, by people who like tangled wires. It is built in the Jungle and the schematics explaining it look like the jungle. Though the lines and figures are angular, and meant to clarify something complex, they are of little help. At first glance they appear to help, then they start to wiggle, when you trace one line to another box, to another triangle, to a circle, they start to move, like a houndstooth coat under fluorescent light, vibrating. Soon you have to go back to find the line you started with. I turned to the text for relief. Airplane manuals are rife with FAA legalese which I am sure is intentionally placed for the express purpose of eliminating the weak. I have grown used to it, but our manual has another problem. It was written in Portuguese. A romantic language for a decidedly unromantic subject. Of course it has been translated for us. Sort of. I imagine that they asked around the factory floor to find someone who took English as their foreign language requirement in high school. Or perhaps they hired a staff of Amazon Pygmies who had been evangelized by English speaking missionaries from Oklahoma. I prefer that scenario. It explains far more about how the end product turned out.

Oh am I supposed to be writing about our two cute little boys?

The high drama days here at McCartertwins.blogspot.com have evaporated. I am not sure if readership has decreased accordingly. I would have no way of knowing. Hits to the site are as unknown as they ever were, it still has not registered on anyone’s buzz index (whatever that is), and advertising revenue has held steady at zero… A wonderful success, with every boring post from here out securing the miracle of boringness.

We are like alcoholics at AA. We are building “dry days.” The drama never truly evaporates from the twins’ history, but it does become less relevant with every passing day of normal twin operations. It does not dissolve but it is absorbed into their increasingly long history, becoming a smaller percentage of what is important by the day. The main difference being that we are not having any dramaholic cravings.

While I sit here typing, letting the other side of my brain fight back, Megan is involved in her own form of minimizing the importance of traumatic parts of her past. August 25th she left her office at the County after lunch for an ultrasound appointment. She left the papers on the desk and the computer on, expecting to finish up in an hour or so. Yesterday she returned for the first time. This time not as a Human Resources Analyst, but as a Mother. What became of those years of gainful employment? I mean, what did she gain? Surely we both appreciated all that money. We are not certain, however, that it was a net gain. Hours of occupying an office, doing what people do in offices, traded for dollars to use in the other hours. Is that a trade up? Of course her new occupation is not as lucrative in that way. Every hour yields benefits that last, and while they are sometimes repetitive they are always invested toward our own agenda. And every day away reinforces that any brilliant person can plan the County’s hiring agenda but only she can love and take care our boys the way she can.