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Browsing Tag: teacher

Your Thursday Morning Pep Talk

I was brushing Saoirse’s hair this morning before school, which is always a task that takes approximately 23 minutes longer than expected (kidding. But it’s a pretty intense process. Which is why I usually let Quinlan do her own hair–all those curls! all that high-pitched screaming in pain! all of that chasing her around the bathroom because she keeps running away from me!–and tolerate the fact that she will perpetually–and quite happily, mind you–look like she got into a fight with a rapid flock of geese. One battle at a time, people). We were talking about…something. I don’t know what. Probably about how long it takes to brush her hair. And then this conversation came out of the blue, as they tend to do: SK: “Mom? At the game last weekend, when they [the announcer] asked all the teachers to stand up so people could clap, why didn’t you stand up?” Me: “I don’t know, Seersh. Probably because I’m not a teacher anymore.” SK: “But you are a teacher.” Me, shaking…

A Pair of Shoes, A Paradox

Ladies (and some gents, if you’re willing to own up to it), do you remember this? Wearing your mom’s high heels? Prancing around in her clothes? Getting that giddy smile on your face when, for just a second, you were somebody else? Somebody special? You were your mom! You were a grown-up.  I caught Saoirse trying on my shoes yesterday, cavorting around her room a little too well for my taste in heels that are just about three  inches too high for anybody under the age of, say, 18.  She was giddy. I was concerned that she was going to wreck an ankle.  And as I am wont to do, I had three extreme and sudden silent reactions, all while keeping a proud-mommy smile plastered on my horrified face: 1.  Holy s#!+! She’s going to wreck her ankle! 2.  Aaaahhh!  No, no!  You look too mature in those heels and getthemoff! 3.  Wait. That’s what I used to do with my mom’s shoes. When did I become the mom? As I ran to grab the camera before Saoirse forgot the shoes and went back to playing with Lightning…

Honey, You’re 18: Thighs Don’t Matter

David had to meet up with some work people tonight, so after dinner (take-out, because it’s Saturday and because I just didn’t feel like it), I took SK and the Mighty Quinn to get some ice cream.  We were sitting on a bench when I noticed two high school girls giggling by the shop’s front window. My eye caught them because one girl was wearing a “Seniors 2011” shirt, and I was trying to figure out which high school she attended, and the other had her skirt hiked so far up her torso that at first I thought it was a second shirt. (Now, you know that skirt wasn’t that high before she left her parents at the house…I hope.) As I watched, another small herd of girls approached them. They must’ve been friends, but this is the coversation that played out in front of us: Girl A, approaching:  “Stop looking at my thighs! You’re looking at my thighs!” Girl B, texting: “Yeah, I’m looking at your thighs!” Girl A, laughing: “Stop looking at my thighs…