When we left the hospital, the middle-aged nurse leaned in close over the wheelchair and stage-whispered, “You think you love him now — just you wait!” I now realize this was elliptical, and she suppressed a grin wheeling our empty chair back through the motion-sensored glass doors, silently adding, “…until you find yourself standing in his room, veins bulging, screaming, ‘NO! Get up NOW! Your room smells of stinking feet and SEDENTARY LIFESTYLE!!!’ “
Fudge: [appearing downstairs, well past bedtime]
Us: “What are you doing down here? You’re about to get in big trouble!”
Fudge: “No, but wait! I need to tell you something important!”
Me: “It better be good.”
Fudge: “My hand smells like cheese.”
No balled-up wads near the bottom of the trash can, no integrated stacks in the recycling. You’re dealing w/a pro here. Shredding “artwork” while the kids are at school.
Few parenting moments are as rewarding as locking the windows open while driving through a bustling Little 5 Points, Def Leopard’s “Photograph” cranked at full volume, singing and loudly encouraging your shrunken children to join in.
We’re at lunch, telling Sadie the story of Secretariat, and we build up to the last race and Sadie squinches up her face and says, “Are you CRYING?!” and I fan my eyes and go, “Yeah,” and she acts like I’m a weirdo and says, “Why?” and I sigh and half-smile and say, “Because that’s the difference b/t kids and adults. You don’t know enough yet to cry when you’re happy.”