Suburban parents are not a nomadic tribe. Every facet of the decision making process that leads us to the suburbs relates back to a single common element: it is easier.
My kids are probably over-scheduled, as are we by extension. Adulthood is not outrageously difficult. Nor is parenting. Raising kids with the schedules of adults, while maintaining your own adult schedule, gets a little dicey.
After the contractor and I determined where one would drive if one were going to go shuttle hunting, I asked, “Would you pull your kids out of school for this?” He was non-committal.
My commitment to the meticulous storage of my daughter’s tap shoes was the only thing holding the universe together.
I assured him that we had two gold dollars somewhere, that he was not responsible for buying his little sister’s teeth. But then, night went on as it does, with nightly chores and nightly fatigue and the tooth was forgotten.
Sometimes I mail in conversations when driving during rush hour. There are a lot of cars and I’m busy making a series of predictions that basically amount to one thing: what’s that asshole doing?
Air temperature, low-eighties, pool, mid-eighties. In my universe, which I realize is the universe of wimps, that’s hypothermia in the making.
There were eight adults and nine kids in our groups. Four families. Some, like my husband, were experienced campers. Others, like me, were prone to waking up at dawn and declaring that we all had hypothermia.
I’ve been going to kids’ birthday parties for almost ten years. I started righteous and dumb. Now I know better. A birthday party crowd is mixed and the audience varied. After a couple of hours of merriment, conversations may drift. This is a dangerous, dangerous game.
Yesterday the Girl fell and hurt her knee, an injury that looked bad when she got it and then got progressively more stiff and painful throughout the day. The injury affected her every move. By evening she declared it the worst day of her life.
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