Mommy math goes something like this: (Stick with me. Word problems are wicked fun.)
Question 1: Five appointments need to be made. There is one person making these appointments and one week in which to do it. How many hours are spent trying to find a pen, some scrap paper, and the phone?
Did you get it? Awesome. Here’s another one. This time it’s a multiple choice:
Question 2: There are seven days in one week. Three weeks have gone by. How many days is that? (Oh, you’re good.) Fifteen more appointments need to be made, including the five that were not made three weeks ago. Where is the person who was supposed to make these appointments?
A) Helping someone else find his shoes
B) Blowing someone else’s nose
C) Answering work emails
D) Rocking in a corner
E) All of the above
When answering a multiple choice question, it is a fallacy that, should you not know the answer, choose C. What you should do, in a case like this especially, is back away slowly. You never know when someone might spring from a corner.
I’m a wee bit overwhelmed at the moment. And not very good at math.
I’m thinking of buying workout clothes. Like those running tights or trendy exercise tops or something. Because when I’m out walking in “regular” clothes, jeans and a fleece for example, I get the strangest looks.
I smile at people. Some don’t smile back. Some hesitantly half-smile—like they’ve just remembered their manners. They appraise me head to toe. (I’m not that interesting to look at.) I’m clearly offending them in some way by wearing everyday clothing. Like I’m mocking their exercise routine. Or maybe they’re simply confused. Their looks seem to say:
What the hell are you doing?
Did your car break down?
If I’m in jeans, I can’t possibly be exercising. And, apparently, simply going for a walk to enjoy the outdoors or get some fresh air is unfathomable. I don’t even wear sneakers, usually, so let’s call this walk what it is: a stroll. What the frick is wrong with strolling? It stills my whirring mind and grounds me. Plus, sun shining through pine trees is pretty.
Hey, ladies in the matching jogging suits…stop and smell the pinecones.
What’s the deal?
Forget dinosaurs and dodo birds, we’ll be saying “It’s gone the way of the walk” sometime soon.
I feel like a film director. I’m no Steven Spielberg but I am a parent. I direct stuff.
Too often, with my 10-yr-old, I’m shouting in my head, “And…action!”
Translated: This would be a good time to give me that glittery rock you found at school. I can actually appreciate it now. Because I’m not elbow-deep in soapy water washing dishes like I was when you first tried to hand me the stone.
Then, there’s my shrill silent-screaming of, “And…cut!”
Translated: This would be a good time to stop talking. You’ve given me something and that is a gift in itself. Please don’t utter another word about it. Because I’d love to not hear that you were going to keep the rock but it’s chipped on the bottom so you don’t want it.
My son needs to embrace that charming little saying about closed mouths not gathering any feet.
That title doesn’t have a ring to it, does it? You know what I mean. Something like “Reflections On Turning 40”.
There is a difference between being 40 and being 41. Do you know what it is?
“Ooh! Pick me!”
“Okay, you in the corner.”
Last year, I wrote a post about turning forty (Over the Hill or 40 is the new 20). Although I complained a lot a bit in that post, I got used to being 40 pretty quickly. Much faster than I thought I would. It was fun to tell people I was forty.
And an ego boost to boot.
“You’re forty?! You don’t look forty.” They’d say “forty” like it was something they’d stepped in and wanted to wipe off their shoe. Apparently, 40 is not the new 20. But I took those as compliments anyway.
Now, though, I have to say that I’m forty-one. People have lost that I-smell-something-bad look but it’s been replaced with pity. Pity. Holy crap, really? Once you have to add a number (any number) after “forty”, it’s officially a pitiful thing.
You can’t say “I’m forty” you are now saying “I’m in my forties.” BIG difference.