Don’t tell the chickadee this, but I’ve pining over someone else lately.
This guy:
The American Goldfinch.
Sure, some might say he’s a little on the flashy side, maybe even too disco ball-ish. But he catches your eye, doesn’t he?
Only down side is he’s a sloppy eater.
But he’s not the first at the Let the Dog In! household….
Do you have any summertime crushes?
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You may know a few people who fudge when it comes to telling their actual age. Our society is youth obsessed, after all. I admit the number “39″ springs to my mind often enough that I’ve pretty much convinced myself that is my age.
Or, I’m just old enough now to lose track of reality and will go with the easy, that-seems-close-enough-not-that-it’s-any-of-your-business answer.
But you might be surprised to know that since I birthed the Kid, my age, or its “real-ishness,” has taken a backseat to a more critical number: my child’s age.
Or, my child’s age in terms of age cut-offs for certain summer camps.
This may not be an issue for you if your child is not, like mine is, at the young end of the school district’s cut-off. This means that many summer camps accepting, say, hypothetically, 6 year olds, will not take my almost 6 year old girl. A girl who’s spent the past school year hangin’, shall we say, with those very same 6 year olds.
With truthful information about your young child’s age, the online registration machine in effect becomes the five foot wide bouncer of whatever today’s Studio 54 is (see how old I am?!). Probably very similar to the real-life reaction if yours truly tried to get into whatever today’s Studio 54 is….
Some “creative accounting” becomes in order.
Besides, I’m old and may not accurately recall what year that was that that baby got ripped out of me. I forget things.
I’m not saying I’d recommend this behavior, or even admit here and now that I might have done this behavior. I’m merely observing and commenting on reality. A reality I’m pretty sure is shared, parent-wide, when signing your child up for camps.
Summer camps. For summer days.
When the days are long.
When you have nothing else going on, except the talking-talking-talking of your beloved child.
I’m sure you’re mature enough to understand.
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Posted in aging, Bainbridge Island, WA, brilliant ideas, growth, parenting
Hiccups. You’d probably live a happy life if you never got hiccups again. Me, too.
Do scientists even know why we get them? Don’t they go in the “yawning” category in terms of bodily purpose and scientific debate?
Yet, we at the Let the Dog in! household desperately need a hiccup-inducing machine.
Can you hook us up? Ebay sellers? Etsy, perhaps?
Why would we want such a thing? To create a new, gentler torture device to make a million dollars with? No.
We are lovers, not fighters. And we do love peace and quiet.
Which is why we want a hiccup-inducing box (HIB, for short?).
Here’s the upshot:
While driving recently with the Kid, she informed me from the backseat (I get loads of info from the backseat), saying–
“Mommy, I (hiccup) hate (hiccup) hiccups!”
“Why is that, dear?”
“Because (hiccup) it (hiccup) interrupts my talking (hiccup).”
A HIB could stop the Kid from talking? The Kid who goes to sleep speaking, wakes up speaking, eats while speaking and dances while speaking?
Surely, some inventive parent is already working on the schematics. Desperate parents might pay a pretty hefty retail price….
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You raise your child hoping each day that she’ll grow up to be kind, smart, compassionate, and interesting. Or at least, I do.
And while some things go as planned, some other things veer way off course.
The Kid recently got a Tamagotchi. Do you know these?
They are small electronic “creatures” that hatch and need caregiving.
And Beep! to tell you about it.
Oh, sure, she was all excited about it at first.
Beep! Beep!
She’d scurry over and push buttons, trying all the options, food, milk, play, pooper-scoopering (push a button-way easier than diapers!)
Then, she ignored it for what seemed like not that long in real life time. I mean, really, an actual baby would NOT have died. I’m pretty sure. Not a healthy one, at least.
But this thing died.
Lucky for Kid, another one arrives in a box on the screen, and Blamo! you have child #2 (Oh, that life was SO easy!).
But we now had a problem. Or two.
A. Kid wanted a GIRL, and child #2 was a BOY.
B. Kid knew once it died, another child would come.
So, the next time we heard Beep! Kid didn’t move.
“Your baby needs something. Aren’t you going to take care of it?”
“NO!”
“Why not?!” (oh, the cruel, coldhearted beast I’ve raised!)
“Because I’m waiting for it TO DIE, Mommy!!”
I’m pretty sure the toy makers were not intending this.
But ever since the time setting on it got reversed and instead of it napping silently, I heard Beep! Beep! at 2am, I’m kinda waiting for it to die, too.
And I figure we got smart and interesting, at least.
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