A few weeks ago we were leaving Target at the same time as a man and his two daughters. The guy turns to me as we cross the parking lot and comments appreciatively as my children both center-splits hurdle the enormous red spheres in front of every Targét. His girls seemed to walk right past without even the slightest impulse to conquer this manmade physical challenge.
He hadn’t even seen our walk in where they leapt onto the chest-high brick walls and then had to clear the pruned hedges of many small villages… sorry about that, I’m currently writing and watching the Sweden/Mexico World Cup game and am inspired by the accents of the best fútbol announcers on Fox.
The daughter father and I had a lovely little parking lot repartee on the differences between sons and daughters. What I used to call princess explosion versus choo choo explosion. At this age, it’s more like beautifully accessorized soccer game hairstyles versus “Did my son just jump through that brick window opening on the ground floor of this parking garage?”
This weekend we’re riding in the car and Nate says, “Mama, what’s that in your hair?” When it comes to car rides, his view mostly includes the back of my head.
And I say, “What? My barrette?”
“What’s a barrette?”
“Uh, it’s something girls use to clip their hair.”
And Nate replies, “Ewwww” and makes a grossed-out face.
I’m undecided on whether I’m more concerned that A) I’ve raised a child that is seven (and for the record, nine) and has never heard of barrettes, or B) hair clips are considered gross to this hurdler of giant red Target balls.
They may have left me with no choice… Commence Operation Princess Explosion.