Two years ago I bought a gigantic inflatable swimming pool. We tried to put it in the front yard, but the house is on a hillside, and as the hose filled up the pool, one side was full while the other was bone dry. I realized the hillside pool could end in a disaster where someone almost died, so we decided to move the pool to the flat garage.
The problem with our indoor pool was it never saw the sun, so it remained cold throughout the entire summer. The kids would spend a couple minutes in it, and then have to dry off on their beach towels laid out in the driveway. When I came down with popsicles, I saw Kiki lying on her towel with her bathing suit top off. I rushed over to her, asking what the hell she was doing, and she explained she was tanning like they do on a European beach.
I unnecessarily explained the difference between a European beach and our driveway, and she put her bathing suit top back on while proclaiming this summer she was planning to get the tannest she’d ever been. As I sat in my lawn chair after feeling like I did some good parenting, I took a bite from my popsicle and said, “You’re just like my sister!”
When I was five years old my family lived on a military base in San Francisco. We lived in an old house that is probably worth fifteen million dollars now, and my sisters and I shared a bedroom on the top floor that had windows overlooking the front yard. One evening, my parents had a get-together, and as they stood in the front yard saying goodbye to their friends, my sister convinced me and my little sister to strip naked and dance in the windows. My parents looked up at their three daughters posing in the windows like it was our first day in the red-light district. They probably had a mini-stroke that killed their buzz and said to their friends, “How did our kids end up such sluts?” Followed by an awkward laugh, no one else would participate in.
I can’t remember what my mom said to us after she came inside and told us to put our damn clothes on and go to bed. I probably blocked that part out of my memory for a reason. I get it. No podcasts going to properly prepare you for parenting your kid when they do something that’s just straight-up stupid.
This week Geoffrey achieved his greatest victory in our house, and he finally won playing the game CLUE. I have hesitations when we start this game because Geoffrey never wins, so it always ends with him flipping over the game board and running to his room, where he slams the door, and screams about how the world is conspiring against him. After he won, he was ecstatic. He was literally doing flips on the couch. I was happy for him, and I said, “See, I told you, it’s all luck.”
Then he took a break from flipping to run around the living room like Naruto, and scream, “It has nothing to do with luck. I’m better than all of you. I’m the best.”
It could have been a teachable moment, but he would have listened as well as he does after he loses, and then call us losers on his fifteenth victory lap. I did what my mom probably did after she told us to put pajamas on and stop dancing for free, and I went into the kitchen and did the dishes.
After Kiki came in and made a snack plate she called her “shar-coochie board” I called my sister and told her about this fine-ass man I saw in yoga. After I explained to her that this guy looked like John Cena, she had a practical reaction, “Make sure he has a job.”
I had to explain to her that it hurts my feelings when my family members say this to me. I obviously would love to have a dual-income household that allows me to have a real in-ground swimming pool, in the backyard, of course, so laying out topless won’t create a text thread of concern on the Next Door app. I just assume people who go to yoga in the middle of the day are like me, with flexible job schedules whose kids go to their dad’s three days a week. I did what I generally do after being mesmerized by another human being, I made up a backstory befitting the leading man in a rom-com.
I imagined he was a retired athlete who spends his time working out and coaching youth sports teams. I finally befriended this hunk when he rolled his mat out next to me and introduced himself. We had an awkward first chat, but I put a stop to my usual logorrhea while laughing after everything I said, and I asked him about himself. He confirmed he wasn’t a professional athlete (knife to my heart) and then said he was just in Marin to clear out a vacant lot and was going to San Diego to see his kids at college.
The conversation didn’t flow like a normal rom-com, but this is real life, so you never know after you first meet someone if they are shy or nervous, or if I am like Jason Bateman in that episode of Arrested Development where he falls in love with Charlize Theron never realizing she is “Special.”
Yes, I’ve learned recently from my kids that “Special” is the new r-word. So if you’re looking to make your preteen run to their room and ponder if they’re Corky in Life Goes On, and no one has the balls to tell them, then go right ahead and call them special. Afterward, you can explain to them that you don’t believe they are “special,” but don’t get too comfortable with your mother’s assessment because this fear will come back multiple times throughout their life.
This yoga guy might not be who I think he is. He could be a gym rat who does contract yard work to sustain his outdoorsy, adventure-seeking, lifestyle.
Oh my goodness, I think I'm growing. Could it be from this seven-month stretch in adulthood that I have not been coupled up with a man? Yes! Suck it life, I’ve outsmarted you, for once. You’ve thrown me the bait, and I finally learned not to concoct a fantasy story before taking a bite. I will find out just how special this guy is before I lay down at his feet.
Now, I’ll take my victory lap, and then do the dishes.
