Sunday morning. I am attempting to tidy up the kitchen and do some prep work for our move, and not really paying attention to what the kids are up to, except for periodically looking up to scream PUT THE DOG DOWN!!!
Phoebe is immersed in a pile of paper on the floor and occupied for an unusually long time. When she finally asks me for help, I realize she is making herself a paper ballet dress. She has pulled down an actual tutu and a tank top to use as patterns, and with her little scissors, she is carefully making a back and a front, and taping them together with scotch tape.
I am filled with admiration and dread. Admiration, because how resourceful and imaginative. What great concentration.
Dread, because inevitably, the paper is going to rip, or just not drape right, and her disappointment and frustration is going to come out in a howl of despair that cannot be assuaged. I desperately hope Jon gets home from climbing before this happens so we can switch off parenting duties.
To no avail. Soon enough, I’m following her around with scotch tape, quickly patching up small tears while droning on about “I guess this is why they don’t make clothes out of paper!”
Now, she’s out in the yard, twirling in bare feet and a paper dress.
She’s pleased with herself, as she should be. Eventually, she decides the dress is too restrictive for her particular form of “ballet,” which involves lots of physical activity and mud, so she asks me to take it off. I subtly cut her out of it whilst pretending to be “undoing” the “fasteners,” and lay it on the kitchen table, where it will probably stay until we move. I don’t dare throw it out.
I’ve noticed the self-consciousness and girliness increasing of late. The other day, Eliza became frustrated because her hair wouldn’t lie flat after being in a braid overnight. Neither of them will let me put their hair up in the morning before school anymore. Phoebe came home today with an elastic holding some of her hair off her face, which she told me her teacher did for her. I felt mildly envious that the teacher was allowed to put her hair back.
They inherited my flat, straight, blah hair and Jon’s incorrigible cowlicks from hell. It’s going to be fun in the teenage years. Apparently they’ve also inherited my affection for ballet, although they’ve never taken a real ballet class in their lives.
If Phoebe somehow grows up to be a ballerina, these pictures are going to be gold.
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What I’m reading:
So apparently the Gen Z kids have a new word, cheugy, which means: just left of basic. I was appalled to find out from this New York Times article that it applies to people who like Rae Dunn pottery and lasagna, so I guess I’m out of the cool zone once and for all in this lifetime.
Just started the novel Flights.
Flattening the Truth on Coronavirus by Dave Eggers
What I’m watching:
This Extra gum ad is weirdly sentimental or maybe I’m just Celine Dion years old now.
What I’m eating:
Ramps! And speaking of ramps,
What I’m working on:
For Tiqets: 5 Creative Marketing Strategies For Reopening Museums And Attractions
