Serious, boring me

I'm so tired of being a grown up!!

I didn't write while we were going through the move and all the stress-y time that went along with that because I just got so bogged down with being serious and grown up. There was NOTHING FUNNY about Parenting or being Adult.

Little things would catch my attention and scream out for sarcastic commentary like that crazy flame war Catherine Newman is trying to start with Jerry Seinfeld's wife about vegetables in Wondertime Magazine. Look, I know I'm not the poster child for sanity, but a word fight about food? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?

Or when my daughter's preschool teacher was talking about reverberating sounds and she said as a demonstration, "I'll show you by humming on Danny's [her husband] bone." Huh. huh, snicker snicker. How could this not lead to witty commentary and one-liners? But no. I'm just serious, boring ole me. I'm out of the habit of seeing the world in humor-colored glasses. Which obviously does not bode well for my family, all of whom rely on me to see the absurdity of random disagreements before they escalate into the serious-- and seriously loud-- fights.

But maybe I'm moving into a better place because the Parenting magazine I'm reading right now (I have no idea if I'm in the current issue or not and I can't be bothered to check because its upstairs and Moxie is asleep on my lap with her mouth kind of half hanging off my nipple. Every time I try to put my boob back in my shirt, she shifts restlessly and roots around. Hey, at least she's allowing me to sit this evening instead of demanding her usual slingride while I dance and jiggle her like a State Fair ride.) had this awesome "It happened to me" column. A dad booted all the big kids out of a bounce house so the little kids could jump and then he got in the bounce house to 'supervise.' Apparently 'supervise' really meant jump around until a kid flies out of the bounce house and fractures an arm. I can't stop envisioning some 200 pound meathead grinning maniacally and leaping like a ballerina while nine year olds stand around looking glum and toddlers fly through the air. Why can't they rename the column, 'Dumbasses on Parade'?

For all you serious adults reading this disapprovingly ("oh the poor child, how could this writer mock such a tragedy?"), the column is funny because
A. the column acts as though we should all be wary of freak bounce house accidents when in fact we should be wary of jumping fathers. And

B. the kid that broke her arm was his own child. I know someone who's getting ice cream and Princess dolls any time she wants!

So, thank you, Parenting, for giving me a little chuckle!