By Karrie McAllister
Before me sits an ominous piece of paper. Actually, two pieces of paper, one for each child. My heart knows that we need to sign them and follow through with what we pledge, but my head thinks I’ve completely lost my mind and in one week’s time there’s a good chance that I might be totally bald from pulling my hair out.
Today, April 23, 2007, marks the beginning of a week-long challenge. Seven very long days of no background noise or animations. It is TV Turnoff Week.
We are no stranger to the television. I fully admit that my children watch plenty of it. In fact, in their innocence and total incomprehension of time, they ask me how long one hour is.
“Two TV shows,” I answer.
And sadly, they understand.
I am not unlike other mothers who use the TV to help rear my youngsters. I carefully choose the most educational programs that I can, but all too often I am pleading with them ever so nicely to “SIT DOWN and WATCH YOUR SHOW so I can get something done!!!” Not one of my better parenting moments.
On goes the TV, and for a short while, no one is fighting and I can hear myself think.
But there are times, too, when I catch them playing games and reenacting their favorite characters, and I think that TV isn’t all that bad. Their creative sides get a nice boost, and some shows even help teach things like vocabulary and manners.
It comes to no surprise that for me, the television is a rather bittersweet electronic device.
But a couple of days ago, I realized that it was getting a little more bitter than sweet when my daughter sat and colored and sang, “Sunnyside, Sunny will save you money!” And then, not but a few hours later, my son broke into another advertising jingle.
Oh no. Not only has TV programming rotted their brains, now it’s commercials, too!
So it was with good fortune that I found that TV Turnoff Week was coming up soon, and even better that one of my family’s favorite stores was offering prizes for days when the mighty picture box was ignored. Children simply sign their names on that ominous paper that they will pledge to have TV-free days, and trade cartoons for goodies.
It’s amazing what they’ll do for a little piece of plastic.
Meanwhile, while they are daydreaming about all of their earnings, I’m in a full-panic sweat wondering how we’re going to survive an entire week without my best rectangular babysitter.
I’m going to have to pull every last thing out of my bag of tricks to keep my children happy, only because I’m afraid that without the hum of PBS in the background, my family room will be less like a media room and more like a wrestling ring.
Not only that, but I can already feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, thinking about how many times I’m going to hear those three terrible words: Mom, I’m booorrrred.
Did I mention that I’m not allowed to watch anything either?
So while their trading their cartoons, I’m trading my sanity.
But they get prizes. What do I get?
I’m hoping I get to spend some focused quality time with my family. I’m hoping to make crafts and play board games and build forts and sing songs—basically all that good stuff that gets lost with the remote control.
I’m also hoping to be able to say with pride that, while the battle was rough, we prevailed in the mighty challenge of TV Turnoff Week.
I’m hoping my kids realize that they are actually allowed to play by themselves without fighting, without the aid of the television, and that they are proud of their accomplishment.
But in reality, I’m just hoping to survive. If this column isn’t in the paper next week, you’ll know why.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A Queen thanks Uncle Shelly for a speedy recovery
By Karrie McAllister
I guess technically it wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even really avoiding the truth. It was just a simple statement that, while true, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
But it was all for the good of my family.
Today, my five-year old daughter had a tonsillectomy.
And trying not to scare the living daylights out of her, I told her all about what her hospital visit would be.
I told her that she would be treated like a real princess, because when she walked in they would dress her in a gown and give her jewelry—namely, a bracelet.
OK, so a rear-flapping cotton gown is hardly ball worthy, and a hospital ID bracelet is hardly jewelry, but you can see where I was going with this.
I also mentioned that while she got to lie in a bed and be treated like royalty, I had to sit in a chair next to her dad for five whole hours.
Needless to say it worked. The night before the operation she was actually dancing around singing “I get to have my tonsils out!” and taunting her brother with the fact that he couldn’t go to the hospital.
The morning of, her tune hadn’t changed much. Her gown was blue, just like Cinderella’s, even though it looked more like Cindy’s work clothes than her fairy godmother’s fashion. And she was the biggest little girl I have ever seen.
She didn’t cry in pre-op.
She didn’t cry in the operating room.
She didn’t laugh at her mother who put the scrubs on backwards.
And as I held her little hand and she drifted off to La La Land, I didn’t cry either. For that I am extremely proud because I would have bet money that I’d have been a blubbering idiot and a nurse would have had to escort me out.
But I sat tearless in the waiting room until the doctor came and told us that everything went well, and that her enormous tonsils were gone.
We rushed back to recovery where she was hysterical, partly from the anesthetic, and partly because a little person had just gone through a big ordeal.
Seeing her upset, a mother does the only thing she can think of, which is focus all her attention on comforting her child. So I held her close and told her how proud I was and, grasping for ways to calm her down, told her I’d brought Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends.”
“Want to hear a poem?”
Yes, she nodded.
And so I started in on page one.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, every time she came to, she mouthed the word “poem” or just made the sign language sign for “more” that she was taught as a baby.
In the course of her recovery, I read the entire book. And if you aren’t familiar with that particular book, it’s quite long.
I read everything from Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too to the Crocodile’s Dentist to the one at the end where the little naked guy wraps his extra long beard around his body and runs down the road.
In a way, the constant of my voice reciting those silly verses must have giving my kid the comfort she needed to rest and recover, maybe even more than the medicine flowing into her IV.
The funny thing is that when I was a little girl I read that book non-stop. I could recite most of the poems, and reading them all again today in the hospital brought back memories of my own childhood.
What’s even funnier is that reading them all again next to a princess, dressed in her gown and jewelry, made a new set of memories all its own.
And for those memories and for a healthy daughter, Uncle Shelly, wherever you are, I thank you.
I guess technically it wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even really avoiding the truth. It was just a simple statement that, while true, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
But it was all for the good of my family.
Today, my five-year old daughter had a tonsillectomy.
And trying not to scare the living daylights out of her, I told her all about what her hospital visit would be.
I told her that she would be treated like a real princess, because when she walked in they would dress her in a gown and give her jewelry—namely, a bracelet.
OK, so a rear-flapping cotton gown is hardly ball worthy, and a hospital ID bracelet is hardly jewelry, but you can see where I was going with this.
I also mentioned that while she got to lie in a bed and be treated like royalty, I had to sit in a chair next to her dad for five whole hours.
Needless to say it worked. The night before the operation she was actually dancing around singing “I get to have my tonsils out!” and taunting her brother with the fact that he couldn’t go to the hospital.
The morning of, her tune hadn’t changed much. Her gown was blue, just like Cinderella’s, even though it looked more like Cindy’s work clothes than her fairy godmother’s fashion. And she was the biggest little girl I have ever seen.
She didn’t cry in pre-op.
She didn’t cry in the operating room.
She didn’t laugh at her mother who put the scrubs on backwards.
And as I held her little hand and she drifted off to La La Land, I didn’t cry either. For that I am extremely proud because I would have bet money that I’d have been a blubbering idiot and a nurse would have had to escort me out.
But I sat tearless in the waiting room until the doctor came and told us that everything went well, and that her enormous tonsils were gone.
We rushed back to recovery where she was hysterical, partly from the anesthetic, and partly because a little person had just gone through a big ordeal.
Seeing her upset, a mother does the only thing she can think of, which is focus all her attention on comforting her child. So I held her close and told her how proud I was and, grasping for ways to calm her down, told her I’d brought Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends.”
“Want to hear a poem?”
Yes, she nodded.
And so I started in on page one.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, every time she came to, she mouthed the word “poem” or just made the sign language sign for “more” that she was taught as a baby.
In the course of her recovery, I read the entire book. And if you aren’t familiar with that particular book, it’s quite long.
I read everything from Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too to the Crocodile’s Dentist to the one at the end where the little naked guy wraps his extra long beard around his body and runs down the road.
In a way, the constant of my voice reciting those silly verses must have giving my kid the comfort she needed to rest and recover, maybe even more than the medicine flowing into her IV.
The funny thing is that when I was a little girl I read that book non-stop. I could recite most of the poems, and reading them all again today in the hospital brought back memories of my own childhood.
What’s even funnier is that reading them all again next to a princess, dressed in her gown and jewelry, made a new set of memories all its own.
And for those memories and for a healthy daughter, Uncle Shelly, wherever you are, I thank you.
April – it’s more than just Easter
By Karrie McAllister
Trust me, I’m a candy eater. I’m the one who picks through my children’s Easter baskets and says “oh, these candies look a little funny, I’d better taste them all just in case.”
The candy, coupled with the Spring flowers and chance to finally wear flip flops again makes me a big fan of April. (I’m purposely overlooking the fact that sometimes here in Ohio we’re trading our sandals for snowboots.)
But a little time on the Internet and you’ll find that there are plenty of reasons to celebrate the month of April. It seems that, over the years, people have somehow concocted obscure holidays that I didn’t even know about, giving us an excuse to party every day of the year.
A quick visit to www.holidayinsights.com and I’ve got an extremely packed schedule this month. There are just too many holidays to celebrate.
The 14th of April is Look Up At The Sky Day. I’m hoping it’s a nice day. I might just stand out there for a long time and feel a little poetic. Thankfully, the 15th is National Rubber Eraser Day, so while writing my poem if I make some mistakes, I can always erase them. And hopefully I’ll get it done by the 28th, Great Poetry Reading Day.
And if you’re a lover of fine foods, April might just be the month for you! There is Eggs Benedict Day on the 16th, Cheeseball Day on the 17th, Pretzel Day on the 26th, and National Prime Rib Day on the 27th. Just think – there were times when we thought all the Easter eggs and candy were bad for us. Those little chocolates have nothing on Cheeseball Day.
I know personally that I’ll have a hard time keeping up with the list of daily holidays. My busy schedule might not have time for things like celebrating Blah, Blah, Blah Day on the 17th, but I’m not worried because there are some fantastic reasons to celebrate the entire month of April.
That’s right, the ENTIRE month.
April is National Pecan month, giving us all a good, solid reason to be a little nutty and eat plenty of sweet pecan pie. It’s also National Welding month, giving some of us a reason to weld away to our hearts content. I know I myself will not be welding, not only because I don’t know how to do it, but also because I’ll be on such a sugar high from National Jelly Bean Day (22 April) that it probably wouldn’t be a wise activity.
April is also National Stress Awareness month, so I suppose we should all pay attention to our stress levels. And once we figure out that we should all lighten up a bit, April is also conveniently National Humor Month, which makes me happy because I love a good joke.
To help you celebrate Humor month, I’ll get you started. Knock Knock. Who’s there? Emerson. Emerson who? Emerson nice shoes you got on.
See? Stress levels down already.
I’m actually very glad to have found this list of bizarre holidays. Sometimes my family gets so bogged down with the daily rigors of life and all of the things that need to be done that we could use a little reminder to stop what we’re doing and rejoice in today. We need to remember to enjoy what we have today, because tomorrow it might be gone.
This list should serve as a reminder to us all to carpe diem a little bit, and whoop it up no matter what, even if it is 23 April, National Zucchini Bread Day. (Now there’s a vegetable with some major party potential…)
I would like to mention that 18 April is National Newspaper Columnists Day. Feel free to send gifts.
By the way, 30 April is National Honesty Day. And for that reason, I swear this column is all completely 100% true.
Trust me, I’m a candy eater. I’m the one who picks through my children’s Easter baskets and says “oh, these candies look a little funny, I’d better taste them all just in case.”
The candy, coupled with the Spring flowers and chance to finally wear flip flops again makes me a big fan of April. (I’m purposely overlooking the fact that sometimes here in Ohio we’re trading our sandals for snowboots.)
But a little time on the Internet and you’ll find that there are plenty of reasons to celebrate the month of April. It seems that, over the years, people have somehow concocted obscure holidays that I didn’t even know about, giving us an excuse to party every day of the year.
A quick visit to www.holidayinsights.com and I’ve got an extremely packed schedule this month. There are just too many holidays to celebrate.
The 14th of April is Look Up At The Sky Day. I’m hoping it’s a nice day. I might just stand out there for a long time and feel a little poetic. Thankfully, the 15th is National Rubber Eraser Day, so while writing my poem if I make some mistakes, I can always erase them. And hopefully I’ll get it done by the 28th, Great Poetry Reading Day.
And if you’re a lover of fine foods, April might just be the month for you! There is Eggs Benedict Day on the 16th, Cheeseball Day on the 17th, Pretzel Day on the 26th, and National Prime Rib Day on the 27th. Just think – there were times when we thought all the Easter eggs and candy were bad for us. Those little chocolates have nothing on Cheeseball Day.
I know personally that I’ll have a hard time keeping up with the list of daily holidays. My busy schedule might not have time for things like celebrating Blah, Blah, Blah Day on the 17th, but I’m not worried because there are some fantastic reasons to celebrate the entire month of April.
That’s right, the ENTIRE month.
April is National Pecan month, giving us all a good, solid reason to be a little nutty and eat plenty of sweet pecan pie. It’s also National Welding month, giving some of us a reason to weld away to our hearts content. I know I myself will not be welding, not only because I don’t know how to do it, but also because I’ll be on such a sugar high from National Jelly Bean Day (22 April) that it probably wouldn’t be a wise activity.
April is also National Stress Awareness month, so I suppose we should all pay attention to our stress levels. And once we figure out that we should all lighten up a bit, April is also conveniently National Humor Month, which makes me happy because I love a good joke.
To help you celebrate Humor month, I’ll get you started. Knock Knock. Who’s there? Emerson. Emerson who? Emerson nice shoes you got on.
See? Stress levels down already.
I’m actually very glad to have found this list of bizarre holidays. Sometimes my family gets so bogged down with the daily rigors of life and all of the things that need to be done that we could use a little reminder to stop what we’re doing and rejoice in today. We need to remember to enjoy what we have today, because tomorrow it might be gone.
This list should serve as a reminder to us all to carpe diem a little bit, and whoop it up no matter what, even if it is 23 April, National Zucchini Bread Day. (Now there’s a vegetable with some major party potential…)
I would like to mention that 18 April is National Newspaper Columnists Day. Feel free to send gifts.
By the way, 30 April is National Honesty Day. And for that reason, I swear this column is all completely 100% true.
A change of season brings a little dance to everyone
By Karrie McAllister
Being raised in the suburbs, I never really saw dancing cows. I had seen plenty of cows just standing around and doing what cows are famous for doing, but no dancing.
It wasn’t until I was driving from my first job through eastern Ohio farmland that I saw them. They were running and jumping and chasing each other, and I swear I saw one of them doing a bit of a hula.
Thinking that I had witnessed some natural miracle, I asked a farming co-worker if cows could really jump. I was all ready to drive back with a film crew when he spoiled it for me.
“Nah, what you saw is normal. They’re just happy it’s Spring. Spring fever, that’s all.”
Once I got over feeling stupid for not knowing cows could actually jump, I tucked that memory away in the corners of my mind, and I pull it out again every Spring.
Because no matter how old or young we are, come that first warm day in northeast Ohio, we’re all are out there dancing around like a bunch of cows.
After being cooped up inside all winter long, acclimating ourselves to the 20 degree temperatures, once the mercury rises above 50 we’re all putting on shorts and flip flops like we just stepped onto the beach instead of the muddy swamp that is our backyard. And on days in March where the mercury hits 65? We actually complain about the heat and sweat a little.
This past weekend was our time to dance like the cows. Sure, we’ve had sunny days before this, but we still had to figure out how to wear winter hats and bike helmets at the same time. This weekend was actually warm enough to go out and not dress in layers, and we took total advantage of it.
Like we were released from some indoor prison, we were wild. With just a hint of summer in the air, we opened up every single window in the house to let out the stink that had been building up all winter long, and then we sent dad to the store for the all-important hamburgers and hotdogs. What’s a summer day without a cookout, right?
And with the smell of charbroiled beef floating through the air, the kids ran around the backyard in t-shirts and bare feet. (Actually we were all barefoot because every pair of shoes we had were caked in mud.)
Nevertheless, it was wonderful to feel the sun on our skin and the bugs flying around our faces.
My children were ecstatic to be outside, and even if there had been a Scooby Doo marathon and I offered them all-you-can-eat candy, nothing would have kept them indoors.
We weren’t the only ones enjoying the day. It seemed that a neighborhood that was hibernating for the last five months suddenly sprang to life. There were people everywhere, walking, playing, grilling, and placing bets on which of the shrubs weren’t going to come back this year.
Come evening, my children’s eyes were glazed over with tiredness. Sun and fun weary, they collapsed in bed just in time for me to realize the mess of toys they scattered around the yard.
So with the warm evening air settling in, I went out to tidy up. And what was once a wild playful day had turned into a peaceful night.
Without the hum of laughter I could hear the spring peepers for the first time this year. I swear there must be 20 million gazillion of those tiny frogs living on my street, and at times during the summer, their night songs are deafening.
But that Spring night, their songs were excited and joyful. They were celebrating the warm weather and change of season, just like everyone else.
Because it was dark out and the frogs are so tiny, I couldn’t actually see them. But if I could, I’m sure they were running and jumping and playing, just like a bunch of spring cows.
Being raised in the suburbs, I never really saw dancing cows. I had seen plenty of cows just standing around and doing what cows are famous for doing, but no dancing.
It wasn’t until I was driving from my first job through eastern Ohio farmland that I saw them. They were running and jumping and chasing each other, and I swear I saw one of them doing a bit of a hula.
Thinking that I had witnessed some natural miracle, I asked a farming co-worker if cows could really jump. I was all ready to drive back with a film crew when he spoiled it for me.
“Nah, what you saw is normal. They’re just happy it’s Spring. Spring fever, that’s all.”
Once I got over feeling stupid for not knowing cows could actually jump, I tucked that memory away in the corners of my mind, and I pull it out again every Spring.
Because no matter how old or young we are, come that first warm day in northeast Ohio, we’re all are out there dancing around like a bunch of cows.
After being cooped up inside all winter long, acclimating ourselves to the 20 degree temperatures, once the mercury rises above 50 we’re all putting on shorts and flip flops like we just stepped onto the beach instead of the muddy swamp that is our backyard. And on days in March where the mercury hits 65? We actually complain about the heat and sweat a little.
This past weekend was our time to dance like the cows. Sure, we’ve had sunny days before this, but we still had to figure out how to wear winter hats and bike helmets at the same time. This weekend was actually warm enough to go out and not dress in layers, and we took total advantage of it.
Like we were released from some indoor prison, we were wild. With just a hint of summer in the air, we opened up every single window in the house to let out the stink that had been building up all winter long, and then we sent dad to the store for the all-important hamburgers and hotdogs. What’s a summer day without a cookout, right?
And with the smell of charbroiled beef floating through the air, the kids ran around the backyard in t-shirts and bare feet. (Actually we were all barefoot because every pair of shoes we had were caked in mud.)
Nevertheless, it was wonderful to feel the sun on our skin and the bugs flying around our faces.
My children were ecstatic to be outside, and even if there had been a Scooby Doo marathon and I offered them all-you-can-eat candy, nothing would have kept them indoors.
We weren’t the only ones enjoying the day. It seemed that a neighborhood that was hibernating for the last five months suddenly sprang to life. There were people everywhere, walking, playing, grilling, and placing bets on which of the shrubs weren’t going to come back this year.
Come evening, my children’s eyes were glazed over with tiredness. Sun and fun weary, they collapsed in bed just in time for me to realize the mess of toys they scattered around the yard.
So with the warm evening air settling in, I went out to tidy up. And what was once a wild playful day had turned into a peaceful night.
Without the hum of laughter I could hear the spring peepers for the first time this year. I swear there must be 20 million gazillion of those tiny frogs living on my street, and at times during the summer, their night songs are deafening.
But that Spring night, their songs were excited and joyful. They were celebrating the warm weather and change of season, just like everyone else.
Because it was dark out and the frogs are so tiny, I couldn’t actually see them. But if I could, I’m sure they were running and jumping and playing, just like a bunch of spring cows.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Traveling at the speed of kid
By Karrie McAllister
I realize it’s generally frowned upon to drag children through airports while mumbling profanities at your husband. But keep in mind that he is walking happily ahead of you, carrying only a backpack and you are weighed down with 2 carry-ons, a doll, and a kid on each hand.
Plus I’m pretty sure I was holding a coloring book in my mouth.
The reason for the hurriedness is that we weren’t comfortably early for the flight. But not late, either, mind you. So after leaving the ticket counter, the race began.
My husband walked like a normal person.
We barely slid along like a three-headed bag lady.
And after a few “hurry ups!” my calmness had gotten the best of me, and right there in the airport the gates of motherhood opened.
“Don’t tell us to hurry up. We’re SLOW. We’ve got junk galore to carry and they’ve got little legs and if we don’t get everything packed so they’ll be happy then I guarantee your trip will be even worse than this lecture in the middle of the security line!”
Or something like that—refer back to the profanities mentioned in the first sentence. Stress and airports do funny things to generally nice people.
Thankfully whatever I said must have worked, and after spending an eternity at the security gate taking off and putting on all of those little shoes (why oh why would I ever make them wear lace-up shoes on travel day?!?) we were again one big happy loaded down family, sitting helpless in the big airport while our children ran amok and flirted with strangers.
Alls well that ends well, but when you think about it, that little story can be translated to just about anything in a life with kids. Or at least my life.
Kids are slow. They have tiny legs, wandering imaginations, and all-purpose stubbornness when it comes to doing something they’ve been told to do. They stop, they fidget. They investigate beautiful art and strange looking people. They reach for things they shouldn’t and for the life of them can’t seem to walk in a straight line.
And this all takes time. My husband, being the working one of the family, has a job where he only talks to adults all day. It’s a fast-paced job, with emails and meetings and cell phones and paperwork. So it should come to no surprise that he is a rather fast-paced person. 71% of his days (that’s 5 of 7 days—I did the math) he’s at his job working as quickly as he can.
Likewise, 100% of my days (that’s EVERYDAY – no math required) I’m at home struggling to be as slow as my kids.
And I’m a little afraid to announce that I’m getting used to it.
I used to think there was some space-time continuum between the house and the car, because it seemed like no matter how fast we tried to get shoes on and buckled in carseats, it was a good ten minutes later by the time I actually put the car in Drive. But now I am all the more wiser and realize that time and space are doing just fine—we are instead traveling at the speed of kid.
With kids, I fully expect to spend twice the time it would take me by myself to do even the easiest tasks, like stopping at the post office or taking a walk down the street.
And someday, when my kids are all off in school, I might be able to pick up the pace a little. But until then, I’ll enjoy the chance to stop and stare at beautiful art and strange looking people yelling at their husbands in the airport.
I realize it’s generally frowned upon to drag children through airports while mumbling profanities at your husband. But keep in mind that he is walking happily ahead of you, carrying only a backpack and you are weighed down with 2 carry-ons, a doll, and a kid on each hand.
Plus I’m pretty sure I was holding a coloring book in my mouth.
The reason for the hurriedness is that we weren’t comfortably early for the flight. But not late, either, mind you. So after leaving the ticket counter, the race began.
My husband walked like a normal person.
We barely slid along like a three-headed bag lady.
And after a few “hurry ups!” my calmness had gotten the best of me, and right there in the airport the gates of motherhood opened.
“Don’t tell us to hurry up. We’re SLOW. We’ve got junk galore to carry and they’ve got little legs and if we don’t get everything packed so they’ll be happy then I guarantee your trip will be even worse than this lecture in the middle of the security line!”
Or something like that—refer back to the profanities mentioned in the first sentence. Stress and airports do funny things to generally nice people.
Thankfully whatever I said must have worked, and after spending an eternity at the security gate taking off and putting on all of those little shoes (why oh why would I ever make them wear lace-up shoes on travel day?!?) we were again one big happy loaded down family, sitting helpless in the big airport while our children ran amok and flirted with strangers.
Alls well that ends well, but when you think about it, that little story can be translated to just about anything in a life with kids. Or at least my life.
Kids are slow. They have tiny legs, wandering imaginations, and all-purpose stubbornness when it comes to doing something they’ve been told to do. They stop, they fidget. They investigate beautiful art and strange looking people. They reach for things they shouldn’t and for the life of them can’t seem to walk in a straight line.
And this all takes time. My husband, being the working one of the family, has a job where he only talks to adults all day. It’s a fast-paced job, with emails and meetings and cell phones and paperwork. So it should come to no surprise that he is a rather fast-paced person. 71% of his days (that’s 5 of 7 days—I did the math) he’s at his job working as quickly as he can.
Likewise, 100% of my days (that’s EVERYDAY – no math required) I’m at home struggling to be as slow as my kids.
And I’m a little afraid to announce that I’m getting used to it.
I used to think there was some space-time continuum between the house and the car, because it seemed like no matter how fast we tried to get shoes on and buckled in carseats, it was a good ten minutes later by the time I actually put the car in Drive. But now I am all the more wiser and realize that time and space are doing just fine—we are instead traveling at the speed of kid.
With kids, I fully expect to spend twice the time it would take me by myself to do even the easiest tasks, like stopping at the post office or taking a walk down the street.
And someday, when my kids are all off in school, I might be able to pick up the pace a little. But until then, I’ll enjoy the chance to stop and stare at beautiful art and strange looking people yelling at their husbands in the airport.
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