Image courtesy of The Suburban Crab archives
Someone once told me that you never feel as old as when your kids celebrate another birthday.
Well, Boof just turned 15 on Friday. Imagine how I’m feeling now.
That sense of speeding toward your death doesn’t hit you those first couple of kid birthdays. You just feel joy and wonder: I can’t believe he’s turning 1! Or: She’s 2 today! She’s such a big girl!
My mother once confided that what she had always wished for her kids was that my brother would be successful and rich in his chosen career… and that I would marry a loving, wealthy man who would take care of me.
Illustration by J. Howard Miller for Westinghouse, via Wikimedia Commons
“How come you didn’t wish for me to have a successful career so that I could get rich on my own?” I asked.
“Oh.” The question genuinely seemed to surprise her. “I don’t know… I guess it never occurred to me.”
This is not to say that I was discouraged from excelling at school, attending college or finding gainful employment after graduating. My mom, after all, is a Tiger Mom, and me doing poorly academically or with my post-college endeavors would no doubt have reflected badly upon her, and that would have been unacceptable. But whatever excellence I may have been able to attain on my own, apparently my parents would never have been able to rest easy had I not found a spouse who would provide for his little woman.
Image courtesy of Sam Mugraby, Photos8.com, via Wikimedia Commons
The cinnamon challenge. If you didn’t know about it before, no doubt you’ve heard of it by now: It’s a big YouTube phenomenon where you swallow a spoonful of cinnamon and record it for posterity so that people the world over can see what a moron you are—and then try to replicate it themselves so they, too, will go down in YouTube infamy.
Photo from The Suburban Crab archives
The other day I came home from work to find the following detailed message written on our dry-erase message board:
“Lady called Mom.”
Thankfully, Ted, who had arrived home before me, had filled in some of the details the original message-taker had not provided. He’d written, “I think it’s the same woman who called yesterday about having her thesis edited.” The woman had previously left a voicemail but had not left her phone number, simply noting she would call back.
That evening, as I was hugging Billup good night, she remembered: “Oh yeah, Mom, did you get the message? Some lady from Germany called you. She wanted you to edit some paper or something.”