I'm Not Looking
Listen, kids. I feel like we're at the point in our relationship where I can admit that I am kind of over pretending to be into unremarkable things, especially unremarkable things that I've seen 48 times. So, now when you shout out,
"Mom look at this!"
"Mom! Mom, look!"
I don't need to see how red your water-iced tongue is, or the size of the leaf you found. I don't need to see how you catch the tennis racket when you toss it in the air. I don't need to look at the spot on your nose, or what is left of the Band-Aid you ripped off your skin. I don't want to see the Silly Putty stretched out as far as it will go or your 18-minute homemade video that has no plot.
I don't need to see what the stick looks like now that it's broken. Or your high score on the Subway Surfer iPhone game. Or another cannonball. Or how you can stuff a lemon wedge in your mouth. Or how you drink ketchup though a straw, or how you use that straw as a fake cigarette.
And I definitely don't want to look at any of the above while driving.
However, I do want to see you almost land that front flip. And I want to see you practice your fast ball. And I want to see the tabletop pool table and lava lamp you won with your mad Skee-Ball skills.
I want to see your shiny gold soccer cleats, your dance moves and your guitar riff. I want to see you bodysurf and read a book that's hard to finish and play charades together.
I want to see your freestyle stroke, your butterfly and your dive. I want to see your drum solo and your line drive to left field and your Mrs. Doubtfire impersonation.
And you won't have to ask me to look.