Now, despite some inherent immaturity (I laugh uproariously at movies like "Team America" and "40 Year Old Virgin"), like most young women of 21, I prefer to think of myself as adult. I live on my own (not counting one miniature roommate), I am relatively self-sufficient (considering that I live off of scholarship money), and I don't have to ask for permisison to do things (oh, joy of my "adult" life). As to physical appearance, these days I get mistaken more often for an under-21 rather than an under-18 (although that does happen to me still). However, my maturity is apparently not at all a sure thing, and is indeed very doubtful to a certain 2-year-old.
Today, after lunch and our Monday trip to the grocery store (which will lead me to another story), E and I went to the park. A park with 2 delightful slides, one a tube slide and the other open. After happily partaking of both "whee's", E decided that I needed to go down the tube slide. I explained that I was too "big" to go down that slide (read: I didn't want my hair to get all static-y). My sweet-eyed son, while regarding me from his lofty position of wisdom at the top of the playground, asked doubtfully, "You're too old? You're almost grown up?" To fall from the heights of age so rapidly is painful. And requires much laughter.
I forgot to pay for E's donut at the store. I don't really know how it happened, because he has one every time we go (it's our secret not-quite-bribe, don't tell anyone), and he had chocolate adorably smeared across his mouth before I attacked it with a handy dandy wipe...Oh, wait, I know, it was because I waited in line with $24.83 worth of groceries for HALF A FREAKING HOUR. Moral of the story: Wal-Mart, if you don't want shoplifters, first of all, don't make distracted mothers have to remember that they bought a single donut, and second of all, don't make the same mothers have to wait in line for more minutes than the amount of money that they spend. Because it will just fry their brains and make it even less likely that they will remember that ring of yeast (another note: don't call them that, it sounds like a "female problem") when they finally get to the cashier. (P.S. Don't worry, crazies, I'll pay my $0.44 next week during the Monday trip. Sheesh.)
Last night we went to the Newman Center on campus for Mass. Halfway through the homily, the sharp-eyed child sitting on my lap informed me of the presence of a black beetle under the kneeler for our pew. I assured my strapping lad that it was dead and couldn't hurt him. He accepted this, but later, the bug apparently became too much for him to handle. During the Eucharistic Prayer, after the bells had been rung for the Transfiguration of the bread (i.e., during one of the most silent parts of the service), my solemn little religious frantically stage-whispered: "I don't like that bug anymore, mommy." Quickly tuning into the muffled giggles of the college students around him, he then proceeded to repeat his statement more firmly and decisively, as if to say "Woman, my mind is made up, and you need to remove that insect this minute." How do you administer discipline not only to your child but to all the children around him? Especially when those children are as old as you are?!?!
No comments:
Post a Comment