minalisms


    Posts Tagged ‘kids’

    Friday Funnies – 3

    Friday, November 6th, 2009

    A young boy enters a barbershop and the barber whispers to his customer, “This is the dumbest kid in the world. Watch while I prove it to you.”

    The barber puts a dollar bill in one hand and two quarters in the other, then calls the boy over and asks, “Which do you want, son?”

    The boy takes the quarters and leaves.

    “What did I tell you?” said the barber. “That kid never learns!”

    Later, when the customer leaves, he sees the same young boy coming out of an ice cream store. “Hey, son! May I ask you a question? Why did you take the quarters instead of the dollar bill?”

    The boy licks his cone and replies, “Because the day I take the dollar, the game will be over!”

    Foggy

    Thursday, November 5th, 2009

    Something has been up with me this week. Have you read the recent blog posts? It’s evident that I’ve been a basket case.

    If I were to let you peek at the data within my nifty ovulation app for the iPhone (Should I have admitted that? But I am so 3003!), you’d see that my moods these past three days were “gloomy,” “weepy” and “sad.”

    So there will be a few things happening between now and Sunday to help me snap out of this fog — things that will involve rigorous exercise, unapologetic shopping and a pregnancy test.

    Dream state

    Wednesday, November 4th, 2009

    I had one of the more scarily bizarre dreams of my lifetime last night.

    I know, you don’t so much care to read about another’s dream. Because, if you’re anything like me, you’re curious about just how scary/bizarre it is but know better than to ask for a play-by-play about something that, inevitably, is wholly uninteresting and anticlimactic .

    But I dreamed last night that Ben and I had a baby; the most adorable little girl with dark hair and big brown eyes who looked more like an 8-month-old by the time we brought her home, which (surprise!), wasn’t our home at all.

    I was calling my baby by three different names — Brooke, Gus and Asha — and growing frustrated by those who called her by the wrong name. This detail, I believe, symbolizes my control issues.

    Anyway, I started nursing my baby for the first time, and somehow the act of breast-feeding was the easiest thing I could have done, which I’m sure is a statement my mom-friends who nursed their real-life kids would guffaw at.

    Once she was fed and burped, I placed Brooke-Gus-Asha into her bassinet and walked away. I don’t know how much time elapsed, but I thought I heard cooing sounds so I went to check on her. As I peered at her face, I discovered that she was very much not cooing but choking on milk she had spit up.

    And so I saved her.

    I quickly yet calmly picked up my dream-induced daughter and patted her back  to clear her throat. Her breathing steadied.

    I saved her. I saved her even though seeing her choke would’ve been the precise moment I’d shake myself awake from a nightmare — when all seems hopeless.

    Happy Mother’s Day

    Sunday, May 11th, 2008

    I awoke today with the intention to sleep in longer. The inevitability of work the next day was my first thought, and so I was hoping that the tighter I squeezed my eyes shut, the faster the thought would dissipate.

    But knowing that it was Mother’s Day, and that Ben was going to leave in 10 minutes to accompany his mom to church, and that I’d feel lame and guilty for allowing laziness to trump my promise to tag along, and that my own mother would scold me over that decision, was the motivation I needed to spring into gear — and the distraction I needed to forget about work.

    So, I went to church. And for the first time, I was able to understand fully what was being preached.

    It wasn’t about God, or Jesus, or Mary, or the Apostles whose names I cannot remember. It was about being a mom, being a parent.

    “Parents are written all over their children,” the pastor said.

    He expounded on the statement: All parents have hopes that their children will be smarter than they are, stronger than they are, have better jobs than they do, and sustain healthy relationships. But, he said again, “Parents are written all over their children.” So unless parents themselves show strength and intelligence and perseverance and engage in healthy relationships, the children can neither reap nor reflect those traits. 

    It was at that point that I thought about my fortune — my independence, my humor, my wisdom and patience; my home, my fiancé, and, yes, even my job — and saw my parents’ faces rooted in all of those things. They taught me how to be the best of themselves. 

    I was wiping tears from my face when I noticed that there were many others doing the same. They all understood just the same.

    “Parents are written all over their children,” the pastor said, one more time.

    “Amen,” I said. 

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