The ‘S’ word in our house is not ‘shit.’ Nope. We curse so frequently (yet another reason why we’ll never win parenting of the year awards) that the girls are completely immune to all the expletives that regularly spew out of our mouths like torrents of Vesuvius lava onto Pompeii.
The ‘S’ word that causes groans, glares of disdain and sometimes tears is ‘sports.’ Dr. Seuss may not like green eggs and ham, but we do not like sports. Our kids do not have the benefit of role models when it comes to physical activity. My husband and I occasionally and reluctantly exercise to help minimize our chances of premature death and make us feel less guilty about our addiction to chocolate, but we don’t exert ourselves with anything resembling enthusiasm.
Scene: Miguel’s Baja Grill, a cheerfully decorated and deliciously authentic Mexican restaurant on Moab’s main drag.
Chloe is intrigued by the habanero pepper on her plate. She examines it closely. She thinks it’s cute. The server warns her that it’s not like a regular pepper. It’s on the plate as a garnish. It’s super spicy, he says, practically challenging her to take a bite. According to Habanero Madness (don’t you just love how the Internet puts every arcane fact at your fingertips), it’s one of the hottest chili peppers in the world. The jalapeño is a wimp by comparison.
As we prepare to leave for our next adventure to the Utah national parks (with a detour to the Grand Canyon-North Rim), I’ve had an epiphany. I now know why I am always so excited to arrive at our destination. Our arrival signifies that we have survived the frenzy of vacation preparation which, in our house, goes something like this:
(1) My husband and I yell at the kids to start packing their suitcases. We then yell at each other for yelling at the kids. This vicious cycle continues for at least 24-48 hours and we all lose our voices. And yet Chloe still manages to forget a few things. And then she blames us. Because we yelled too much and she couldn’t concentrate on her packing.
I love my kids. More than anything. I really, really do. But I really don’t care for Mother’s Day. Call me crazy, but every year, I wake up on the second Sunday of May with unrealistically high expectations that involve my being treated like a queen (albeit of a very small kingdom). That fantasy has now officially been quashed.
One of Sophie’s electives in school this term is playwriting. She is one of two children in her class (yes, that’s correct, one of two kids – up to you to decide whether that’s wonderful or a silly waste of teacher resources. I confess to wavering between the two). Sophie loves her teacher. For the past several weeks, they have been writing a short play that they are going to perform for their parents on Friday.
If Sophie were a mood ring, she’d turn different colors with dizzying speed and without any warning. While she’s always been my happy-go-lucky little girl, her generally sweet disposition camouflages glimpses of something more sinister.
After weeks and weeks of misery (at least for those of us who hate the snow), spring shoved the winter aside for a couple of glorious days. The 55-degree weather has started to melt the mountains of white stuff, which makes for an interesting study in contrasts.
Not the movie. The game. Risk. Usually Chloe plays alone with her dad. But with Sophie at her friend’s house for a sleepover, I crashed the war for the first time. Chloe loves Risk. My husband likes playing the game because he always wins. After a few minutes of listening to the two of them interrupt one another to explain the rules to me, we dove into battle.
Having started the tradition of interviewing Chloe for her birthday last year, here are her thoughts on finally entering the era of Teenageddon.
The moral of the story is that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Chloe did not look at last year’s entry before finishing this one and was surprised at how similar her answers were.
I’ve written about this phenomenon before. Once every year or two, Chloe and Sophie actually get along during their waking hours. It’s a rare occurrence. A bit like witnessing a total solar eclipse.
At the risk of jinxing this most recent episode of sisterly love, I find it necessary to document it on this blog now, lest the girls forget that there were times during their tender years when they didn’t fight.
