Last night Tyler refused to play Memory (aka, “matching cards”) with me for fear they would start on fire. Seems it’s fire safety week, and his teacher warned him not to play with matches. I was going to explain the difference, but it’s kind of nice having someone around here who’s more confused than I am.
In other news, I won’t be getting my ass whooped in Memory by a 3-year-old any time soon.
I am determined that no child of mine will be the only kid in the shallow end during middle school swim class at the neighboring YMCA, lonely, shivering and clinging to a kickboard, while his peers are performing armstand back double somersault pikes off the diving board. I imagine this experience would be mortifying. Possibly even life scarring.
…that you will never outgrow your kids’ size nine sneakers, and that you will always hold onto my shoulders and step into your superhero underpants one leg at a time.
Said Tyler: “Mama, your hair is gray.”
Said I: “I thought you knew your colors. Not gray. Brown. Light brown by Loreal with superior gray coverage, if you want to be exact. So you see, there is zero percent possibility that my hair is gray. Zero, zilch, zip!”
Said Tyler: “Oh. Your hair is brown and gray.”
I just love a man who’s willing to compromise!