Allie went to a skating party for one of her good friends since preschool today. I used to spend excessive amounts of time roller skating. When I looked around, I realized that roller rinks are one of the few places where you could wake up from a coma with no idea what decade it was. The carpet looks the same. And the only change, really, is that Allie was skating to Fun. and not Coolio. I’m not sure how I feel about that as Gangsta’s Paradise always made circling a wooden floor counter-clockwise more logical. And thug, obviously.
One change is these skating assist tools they have now to lean on, and while I don’t want to go all BACK IN MY DAY WE WALKED 7 MILES TO GET A DRINK OF WATER *angry old man voice*; back in my day, you learned to skate by busting your bottom and knees until you got the hang of it.
There were no PVC and duct tape devices to use to brace yourself. Seems like cheating to me, because part of me feels like a good swift fall on the bottom might build character; but Allie skates happily, and it was a nice birthday party.
I should also mention that Allie thinks we should watch the Super Bowl tonight.
“Let’s just make snacks and have a girls night and watch it on the couch!” She said.
“Okay. But why?” I replied. Surely there was some method to her madness, as she would never voluntarily watch a sporting event. In fact, most of her life, the only timeouts that were rewarding, in that she would her second guess her behavior, occurred when I parked her in front of ESPN as punishment. She would cry and immediately apologize when confronted with the notion of being forced to watch sports.
Anyway, she was all, “I need to watch it to know who wins for school on Monday. So I can talk about it. Plus I’ve heard the commercials are funny.”
“Second graders are talking about the Super Bowl?”
“Oh yeah. So I have to stay up to date.”
“SO–what you are really telling me is that you want to watch it so you have something to talk to the boys about at school tomorrow?” With that statement, I received the red cheeked look of shame given only in moments of the truest of true embarrassment.
“Maybe.” She huffed. “Anyway, what teams are even playing?”
If I had started writing this with the intention of arguing that raising a daughter is an intense kind of crazy, this is where I would rest my case.
She is awfully cute, though.