(Grace Jones pictured is not my neighbor.)
(The title should be read phonetically, I believe.) Our next door neighbors at the condo are “perfect.” The mom is my age, has had four kids and is skinny. All of the kids tan. The son can do any sport he wants and the four year old girl just road a two-wheeler for the first time today. The 12 yr old girl is getting into competitive cheer. They have a suburban, not a mini-van.
My kids burn. James hates sports. We were trying to ride a two-wheeler today and he got very discouraged. We are trying to tie shoes as well, and it is taking a few tries. Katherine doesn’t care if she rides a bike or cheers as long as people are paying attention to her, and if Seth is bad at a sport, he just head butts or bites the kid with the ball.
I feel like Steve Martin in “Parenthood” where his kid likes to put a bucket on his head and run into walls. Rick Moranus says, “you must be so proud.”
This is the part of parenthood I don’t like. I don’t like sounding things out phonetically, running along side a bike and trying to explain how to balance, talking about bunny ears going around a tree and going through the hole to tie a shoe, or feeling inadequate in any way. Why is it baby animals are born with innate abilities and human kids aren’t? If a duck can swim and fly without being taught, why can’t my kid be born riding a bike? Doing cartwheels? Eating vegetables and liking it?
I miss law school where I would write a crappy brief and my professor would say, “This is a piece of crap,” and I would nod and leave cussing her out. It would be over and done with. Parenthood is a process. I really hate processes. I was never meant to be a factory worker.