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!"
"MOM! LOOK!"
Know this:
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.
Who has the Skee-Ball high score at the Avalon Arcade? These two.
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.