Monday, April 30, 2007
Color My World
Just when I think I've adjusted to the idea of my kids being color blind, one of them will shake me out of complacency with an unexpected curve ball. Saturday morning, en route to the farmers market for the season's first blueberries, we were playing "I Spy" in the car.
Boo said, "I spy something green."
After exhausting the usual suspects--trees, grass, bushes, leaves, street signs, stop lights--we asked for another clue.
"Inside or outside the car?"
"Inside."
There wasn't much green to be found inside the car, so we surrendered.
"What did you spy, Boo?"
"Mommy's hair!"
I was transported back to the day last fall, when the idea was just beginning to dawn on me that the kids might be color-deficient, when Boo asked me with utter seriousness, "Is a horse's mane green?"
If someone would just salve the small pinprick to my heart, I think I could find it within me to laugh.
Boo said, "I spy something green."
After exhausting the usual suspects--trees, grass, bushes, leaves, street signs, stop lights--we asked for another clue.
"Inside or outside the car?"
"Inside."
There wasn't much green to be found inside the car, so we surrendered.
"What did you spy, Boo?"
"Mommy's hair!"
I was transported back to the day last fall, when the idea was just beginning to dawn on me that the kids might be color-deficient, when Boo asked me with utter seriousness, "Is a horse's mane green?"
If someone would just salve the small pinprick to my heart, I think I could find it within me to laugh.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Metamorphosis
On Friday nights, we frequent a local hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant. Reincarnated from the site of an old Whataburger, our neighborhood dive has gained statewide acclaim. Is it a coincidence that the worries of my week seem to dissipate as quickly as the ice in my margarita? This evening we were finishing dinner when Max piped up.
"Hey! I can turn my finger into a Christmas tree!"
"Really?"
"Just watch!"
Slowly Max snaked his index finger through the remainder of his refried beans, then rolled his fingertip in his Mexican rice. Satisfied, he held his finger aloft, admiring the orange flecks adhering haphazardly to his sticky flesh.
"See!," he shouted proudly. "It looks like Christmas ornaments!"
Through the magic of tequila, what would have been an Emily Post infraction before a margarita can be transformed into pure hilarity after one.
I needed that.
"Hey! I can turn my finger into a Christmas tree!"
"Really?"
"Just watch!"
Slowly Max snaked his index finger through the remainder of his refried beans, then rolled his fingertip in his Mexican rice. Satisfied, he held his finger aloft, admiring the orange flecks adhering haphazardly to his sticky flesh.
"See!," he shouted proudly. "It looks like Christmas ornaments!"
Through the magic of tequila, what would have been an Emily Post infraction before a margarita can be transformed into pure hilarity after one.
I needed that.
