It was something I realized while riding with my daughter. We were taking our dog to a park. She’s almost two, that dingo of a dog. We were going to throw the ball to burn off some of her energy. It gets stored up in reserve batteries she keeps in her haunches.
The rocket fast (or was it?) little kid go-kart extravaganza
I don’t know how fast I was going. Or how slow. It felt quick. Adrenaline speeds things up. So does wind in your hair. Gripping a steering wheel. Breathing noxious engine fumes. Knowing your hindquarters are just inches off the ground. Who cares how fast you’re going? It’s really how fast you THINK you’re going. And it felt FAST! Rocket car fast. These were go-karts at a local “adventure speedway.” We were there for a birthday party. One of my daughter’s closest school chums. It warms the heart to see two little girls hug. Like they haven’t seen each other in ages — not just a couple days ago. Little boys don’t do that. They slug each other in the arm and say, “Happy birthday, pickle breath. Hope your momma’ got you good looks for a present.” Little boys don’t show affection. That is until they see something amazing and incredible and stupendous … like a go-cart. Then they scream, “I LOVE you!” and run over to hug it like they haven’t seen each other in ages. That was pretty much my reaction when a ticket to the speedway was tucked into my hand.
And then, much thanks was given …
And now the column where much thanks is given for the little things in life: • I’m thankful that my dog can hold her pumpkin. Little pumpkins, left over from Halloween. They were part of a display on the dining room table. A nice, simple Thanksgiving display. Very nice. Then they started disappearing. One by one.
A grand experiment to slow down time
Great men — brilliant men — have often speculated about time machines. Devices that might take us backward or forward to our past or our future. But why hasn’t anyone explored the idea of a time-slowing machine? This occurred to me the other day after walking my daughter to school. As I strolled back carrying her scooter, I marveled at the Christmas blowup toys in someone’s front yard. “Already out!?!” I thought. “How can this be? It’s too early.” But it isn’t. Thanksgiving is almost here, and that means we’re locked and loaded, buckled up and bundled in with a heavy foot on the gas, headed for Christmas.
Elementary school field trips: The adulthood reminder
Nothing reminds you you’re an adult like hanging out with a bunch of kids. On a field trip. In a school bus. It’s chaotic chatter — like birds in the trees — until one child starts humming Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Why Beethoven’s Ninth? And then they all start to join in, one after another. Only … wait a minute … no, they’re not humming. They’re moo-ing. They are all moo-ing like cows! Beethoven! All of them now. Every last one. The bus is filled with the sound of bovines. And I just have to smile. Nothing reminds you you’re an adult like hanging out with a bunch of kids.
No drama in the elementary school lunchbox
There is no drama in my daughter’s school lunch. I just realized this the other day. There’s no mystery. No excitement. No surprise. No “ick!” And I don’t know how I feel about that. Because isn’t that what school lunch is all about? It was for me.
Time for a wascally wabbit education
She sat there with a carrot plugged into the side of her mouth. Gnawing on it. It’s the only way to describe it. The kid was gnawing on it with her back teeth, grinding away little bits and smacking her lips while she did it. My daughter will ask for a carrot before she’ll ask for a piece of candy — who knew such a thing was possible? Not carrot sticks, but a whole carrot. She’ll chomp down to the very end, until her fingertips are brushing her teeth. She was doing this at the dinner table and I looked over at her. I put my chin on my fist and got nostalgic.
All hail the queen of scooter ballet
As a kid, I always wanted to be a skateboarder. I had a skateboard, but I was never a “skateboarder.” See, there’s a difference there. Having a chunk of shaped plywood with four worn-down wheels doesn’t make you something. It only makes you the OWNER of something. I wanted to glide and feel one with the board. To effortlessly fly about the streets, weaving in and out of cars, just missing their speeding fenders. I wanted to jump over drooling, carnivorous, child-eating dogs. I wanted to sail through the air, feeling as if I was carried by the winds — not four little spinning chunks of rubber.
The back to school quickstep
Hurry, hurry. Pack, pack, pack. Quickstep, quickstep. Rush, rush, rush. Pivot. Box step. Grab the lunch. Kick. Heel turn. Hop the dog … EEEK!!!! Dog!?! Did anyone walk the dog? GASP! Start again … Hurry, hurry …
Pick a parenting style, any parenting style
I must be a damn fool. A DAMN fool! Never, in my wildest dreams, in my foolhardy notions, did I realize there were styles — actual styles! — of parenting. Did you know this? Do you have one? It’s apparently just like clothing … plaid, skinny jeans, 70s post-hippie chic, drank two 12-packs and woke up in a kilt three days later. All styles.