Story Telling

Someday, many years from now, I plan to take Avery out for a girls’ night out of sorts. And, over margaritas and chips I’m going to tell her about the time I came to pick her up from preschool, and caught her whipping her spare pair of underwear at her classmates. And, I’m going to tell her how loudly she was laughing, and how all eyes were on her, and how she just kept whipping and whipping the underwear around and around and around. I’ll tell her how I stood there staring, and how, as we walked to the car, I sternly told her that she’d have to tell her father about this one. And I’ll tell her how she told Dan, and promised that she wouldn’t do it again. And I’ll tell her how teaching her manners, and what is/isn’t appropriate was the most MADDENING aspect of parenting, and how I plan to laugh my butt off when Avery’s daughter is taking her to the cleaners, and leaving HER face down in the carpet BEGGING FOR MERCY.

And then I’ll finish the story by telling her that she broke her promise to her father by engaging in panty whipping AGAIN and AGAIN and AGAIN. And then how we completed the cycle again: told Daddy, promised not to do it, but then did it again AND AGAIN. And then I’ll tell her how the teacher pulled me aside and said, “The four year old class doesn’t need to bring spare clothing. We covered it during the Orientation session. Certainly you were there.” And then I quipped, “Well, yes, but I was too busy nursing my bad attitude while simultaneously praising God that preschool was starting back up ALL WHILE chasing a ping pong ball and playing Mad Libs! Holy heck! Could you have told me she didn’t need spare clothing after the first whipping offense? Help me, help you, help me here lady!” C’mon!

And then Avery and I will toast our margarita glasses, order another round (charge it to Dan), and hopefully laugh, cause that’s the only way to muddle through this. Cause, really, life is pretty doggone good.