I Refuse to Refer To a Chicken In This Title

The kids and I were out for a drive tonight after dinner. It's only 10 minutes or so before we're in farm land here--no joke--and we had some amazing skies today.  


I wanted them to see it and appreciate the beauty this world has to offer (read: I wanted a picture and since we went out to dinner, and we drove to the restaurant in separate cars, and both of them rode home with me, they had no choice.)  


On the way out of town, we hit a bit of a stumbling block that literally stopped us dead in our tracks. 


Well, two of them actually: 

You see them? 


Here, let me give you a closer look: 

Ducks.


One boy, one girl. 


Probably out for a post-coital stroll. 


In the middle of the road.  


It gets better.  


Because the closer I got to them with the car, the slower they seemed to be moving. At one point they just stopped and stared at me. 


Taunting me, those ducks were.  


DARING me to run them over.  


So I got out the car to chase them to the side of the road so I could, you know, drive and continue my excursion, and you know what they did?  


They ran waddled the wrong way!  


By that I mean they started going up the road like they possessed four wheels and a stereo. Like they could seriously outrun me.*  


Observe: 

I chased them for tens of feet before they decided to go ahead and get in the ditch so I could pass by.  


In the interim, I had to wave two different cars along. Because it's important when ducks are ambling about asphalt right outside the city limits to 1) stop your car in the middle of the road, 2) exit your vehicle in order to get closer to them so you can obtain photographic evidence of your little tale and 3) allow your children to frolic in the middle of the road as well** thus exposing them to 3,000 pound vehicles moving at highway speeds the beauty this world has to offer.  


But you know what? 


I got pictures of the ducks. 


HUZZAH! 


I'll just end it right here. 


Let the fowl puns commence. I'm sure they'll quack me up. -> 


*Which, OK, they did. But whatever. 
**It's a family affair, my blog. 

Getting Old Sucks, Episode 2

I was doing the whole "mom thing" recently, hanging out as a chaperone with Libby and her 4th and 5th grade buddies during their chorus party.

They were in the school gym playing with old fashioned toys: Hop Balls*, jump ropes, basket balls, scooters...it was kind of cool to see them running around, making noise, laughing, dancing to music and being perfectly content with not being plugged into anything.  

I was genuinely enjoying the moment until I saw her. 

That little show-off girl named Brooklyn.  

Who was hula-hooping.  

For like, hours. 

Non-stop. 

Self-disclosure: Even when I was a kid, I could never hula-hoop very well. I always envied those other little girls who were so graceful with the hoops. You know the type: the ones whose hips barely seemed to move and the hoops seemed to have a life of their own, effortlessly rotating round like the hands of a clock. 


Any time I tried, my body was not unlike the inside of a washing machine. Maytag, 1930.     

I've never quite gotten over the shame.  

And there little Brooklyn was, casually walking the entire length of the gym, which, I'll have you know, is three-quarters of a mile long, while simultaneously hula-hooping and chatting up a friend.  

Can you believe the nerve?  

I wanted to give her a spanking for being such a braggart. You would have thought her mom would have taught her better. 

Then came Libby, who, like only a  9-year-old daughter can, honed into my insecurities and offered me a hula-hoop.

I wanted to give her a spanking for her impertinence.  


But not willing to be outdone by a mocking, plastic circle of painful memories once again, I gave it a whirl.  


I would like to point out that 30 years have done nothing to improve my hula-hooping technique.  Suffice it to say I went after it with the subtlety of a jackhammer. 


The hula-hoop landed on the floor within seconds. 


Libby laughed.  


And then brought me a jump rope.  


Which hey, I can do that. Right? 


RIGHT? 


Turns out when you're nine, or 14 for that matter, you don't really have to worry about any parts of your body going rogue. 


Not so when you're over 40, possessing not   boobs so much as watermelons. Which even when constrained, can do some impressive acrobats.  They not only bounce up and down but head off in diagonals and rotate in circular motions. The fact that my boobs can likely hula-hoop better than me is concurrently humiliating and painful. Especially when the left one gets all excited and whacks me in the chin. 


And don't even get me started on the bladder, which goes about reminding you of your age in a much more secretive, yet emotionally deleterious way.  


My bladder: You're not young anymore. 


Me: *ignoring bladder.*


My bladder: Hello? You're not young, Tanya AND you've had two children. You really think you need to be jumping rope?


Me: *ignoring bladder.* 


My bladder: Two pregnancies. Do you get that?


Me: *ignoring bladder.*  


My bladder: DO YOU? 


Me: *ignoring bladder.* 


My bladder: NO? 


Me: *ignoring bladder.*


My bladder: *Squirt.*  ->  


video 1:07 

*This is why I love Google.  I literally typed in "bouncy ball you sit on" and the second image was the one I needed.