Today our blog will not mention Liam, but rather Meitav. After several months of hard work she had her spring performance today. Jazz, modern (dance), and ballet. As I'm looking at her very professional performance on the stage, I'm thinking to myself:
Is this really the girl I see off to school and off to bed every day, the one I help with homework (less and less, I must admit), the one I mentor and stand behind? It's hard to believe. She looks so independent and mature up there. (My only suggestion for the performance organizers is to have the girls' names on the back of their customs, so we'd know who's who. Like in professional sports, you know.)
The Laundry Basket Guide to Modern Dance
And as we sitting there watching Meitav, Rachel leans over and whispers in my ear: "psst, your T-shirt stinks." Another lost battle.
The Laundry Basket Guide to Desired Gardening
On a "normal" basis (a term I'm not sure what it means to our family), I don't do laundry. I just fold it - and only during eligible sporting seasons - football, baseball, golf (some), soccer (NONE!). But now that I'm sort of a single parent, I'm forced to do a few loads of wash every week. The problem is that what do I know about all these special cloths? As far as I'm concerned, there's only one cycle (Normal) and all the cloths go from the washer to the dryer. End of story. When Rachel, in a rare visit at home, discovered some ruined cloths - the result of my ignorance - my line of defense is always the same: There's no war without its casualties. Which, coincidentally or not, is the very same line I mumble out after pulling out an exotic plant during my once-a-year weeding (must be in a time there's nothing good on TV). All I'm doing is building un-trust. And that, in a nutshell, is my retirement plan: I'm waiting for "them" to tell me: Please don't load the washer-dryer no more and don't weed the garden. That would be the rubber stamp that would officially send me to the couch.
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