More recently I realized that I had, in fact, constructed an enormous Rube Goldberg of self delusion regarding the exact number of years that have passed since my birth.
I spent spring break in South Florida with the beautiful people.
At this point, the accomplished storyteller should be waxing poetic about the exploits of her college break (sadly, only one) spent in sunny Florida in order to move the storyline forward. While I would love to re-live those few short days on the beach in Fort Lauderdale, and embellish my memories enough to make them worth reading about, I fear pushing the rewind button on that coming-of-age period in my life would trigger enough specifics to flash the approximate date of that trip across my conscious mind causing me to be just one spontaneous subtraction problem away from inadvertently recalling my current age, rounded to the nearest year. I’m pretty good at math, so I’ve decided not to go there. Continue reading “Doing the funky chicken comes of age”
“I can spell dog, d-o-g. I can spell log, l-o-g. I can spell hog, h-o-g. But I can’t spell hippopotamus.”
[As our son, Benn, was graduating kindergarten, my husband and I had no idea that one day he would be an enthusiastic agricultural student at Clemson University, racking up 4.0 averages during his first four semesters. And where did he get his love of farming? (Don’t look at me.) From Arnold Ziffel, of course.]
As the dog days of summer overtake me, I like to reflect on the pleasant, yet unusual way my summer began – at a kindergarten graduation. Participating in the pomp and circumstance of five- and six-year-olds engaged in their last hurray of innocence is an activity enjoyed mainly by young, enthusiastic parents, and wise, seasoned grandparents. Continue reading “A game of Beat the Clock and a kiss goodnight”