There’s something delightfully scary about a full moon. Odd things happen but you’ve got an out. If you bake your never-fail pound cake for the church bazaar and it falls, blame it on the moon. If your grandmother takes a stroll around the block but forgets to don her shoes, blame it on the moon. If your toddler has a meltdown in the grocery store that so eclipses any previous meltdowns that you’re sure he’s a shoe-in as the star in the next Damien movie, blame it on the moon.
I love a full moon. I’m really hoping that something freakishly cool will happen, so, my senses are heightened, my antennae up; I don’t want to miss a thing.
Friday the 13th is another matter. As a rule, I’m not superstitious (except when it comes to sailing, and then any sailor worth her salt will hedge her bets and bow to folklore and the forces of wind, water and weather.) The only time I bowed to Friday the 13th was when our younger son was to be born. A Caesarean was planned and d-day was a Friday, the 13th of July. The doctor was hellbent that he be born that day. Maybe he had golf in mind for the weekend and wanted to take no chances should the baby decide to present himself to the world early and interrupt his plans.
I, on the other hand, had a differing opinion. I wanted the baby to be born the following Tuesday. “Discussion” ensued. I won.
Our son was born the next Tuesday, the 17th, safe and sound. I don’t remember exactly how I convinced the doctor to come over to my way of thinking but there’s the strong probability that a hissy fit was part of the equation. I’m not prone to hissy fits, they’re just not my style … there must have been a full moon.