Better Today

Oh, I am so much better today. Silly me! What was I thinking, having emotions and all. Goodness. Back to my normal, callous self, and I am so much happier that way.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Robert Frost really hit the nail on the head with that one. It's absolutely true. Sorry to get all philosophical on you, but today I realized that my gold is gone. All gone.

The accelerator here is that the very last piece of memorabilia from the days when I was young was broken today, shattered into a million pieces. Oh, how symbolic! Sorry to use a tired, old cliche, but there on the floor lay my shattered dreams. What those dreams were, I cannot say, but my gold is all gone. It was something small and seemingly insignificant, but it was irreplaceable and twenty years old. It represented a life I once had before I met anyone who reads this silly blog. A house that's long gone. Wonderful people who have long since died. Others who have long since drifted away. All gone. And the one thing that reminded me of it all is now gone too.

I rationalized that it was no big deal because being part of a large family, I am used to this kind of thing happening. It was then that I realized that nothing represents my past. It's all gone--borrowed and lost, broken, stolen. Every piece of jewelry. Every stuffed animal. Every book. Every prom dress that wouldn't fit me again in a million years. Everything that had ever been given to me more than sixteen years ago is gone, and much of it since. At heart, I am not materialistic. I simply can't afford to be, but it's nice to have reminders, trinkets, souvenirs of a life long lost.

And similarly, I feel that part of me has died a little bit. Everything that reminded me of what went into my making, my formative years, is gone. It's not good to hold onto the past, but I was holding onto things that reminded me of wonderful people and the impacts they had on my life. All gone. Of course, the memory is still there, but I don't have the item to trigger it. The item that I saw every day to remind me.

Does that mean it's my turn to start passing out the trinkets, which will also bear tremendous value, ones that will similarly be broken, lost, stolen? Is it an endless cycle? What am I supposed to learn? Live for the present and forget the past? I don't like that one bit.

Pickles and Corn Pops for Dinner

No, no one is pregnant. That's what Tootsie wanted for dinner. I'm trying to justify it somehow, but I can't, so I am resigning myself to the fact that sometimes, Tootsie is simply eight-years-old and wants pickles and cereal for dinner. So be it.

Don't Mess with Michael

Our household, like any other Malcolm in the Middle-esque home, has the standard rules: no hitting, kicking, spitting, name calling, etc. All of these are enforced whenever infractions are observed by the proper authorities. Otherwise, it's pretty much eye-for-an-eye or I'm telling Mom. Recently, however, a new rule has entered our lexicon: Don't mess with Michael.

No, Michael is not a neighbor, a pet, or even a plant. It's Michael Jackson. Our Michael Mii. Looks just like the real thing. Walks daintily, bowls like a champ, not so great at tennis, but awesome with Mario Kart. In our household, you can pretty much mess with any other Mii. Daddy is now fat with makeup and blonde dreadlocks, and Mommy has been altered repeatedly, but the boy is protective of his mama, so she is always reverted to the original. Mess with Michael, however, and you're grounded. Sad but true, my children's only experience with the King of Pop is our electronic version. And you don't mess with Michael.

I Can't Wait for Old Age

Today, we picked up Chinese food for dinner. On the way to the car, my boy proceeded to shoot everyone in the parking lot with his bubble blower fan. He pretended it was a gun. Nice.

As we were driving home, and the boy was crying that he wished I would get rid of the sun (it was shining in his eyes), I noticed the car in front of me. I was a little jealous, to understate it. In this car was a man who had no car seats. A straw hat rested near the back window. The back seat was piled high with boxes of soda. The man himself was smoking a cigarette, talking on his cell phone, and driving. How did I see all of this, you may ask? I was driving in my suburbanite, goody-goody mondo-sized SUV, that's why. And I was insanely jealous of this man's seemingly cavalier life. This man was living freely. With reckless abandon. No responsibility, as represented by the willy-nilly placement of the straw hat. If I had a straw hat, it would be crushed and shredded, by no doing of my own. If I had that many sodas in the back seat, half would be opened and half-drunk then left to go flat. If I were to drink them, I'd balloon up ten sizes. I can't have a phone conversation without it sounding like Silence of the Lambs in the background (I swear they save up the needless screaming for the moment the phone hits my ear). Let's not even breach the subject of smoking a cigarette or driving a car, for that matter. I don't remember the last time that I was permitted to truly focus on the road. I'm usually pulling out chips or tissues or bottles of milk, contorting my body in all kids of inhuman ways to pick up something that someone dropped two rows behind me. I should be starring in the Cirque du Soleil by now.

Now, I have been sitting at the dinner table for an hour, watching children not eat the food they so begged for. I can't wait to become old and senile so that they have to take care of me and I can destroy all of their straw hats and open their sodas. I'll also miss the potty when I pee, tell them I need help bathing in the tub, spill milk in my bed (or theirs), beg for food that I refuse to eat because it's red, not brown, forget how to use silverware and straws, throw a fit when I don't get my way, and spit on the floor. And when they become agitated with me, I'll start moping and insist that they don't love me. I can't wait for old age. It'll all be worth it.