So I may be cheating a bit in that this post isn’t about my kid. But you guys, I really need to vent. Story’s dog – term used loosely – is going to give me an aneurysm. The Little Shit, as she is not at all affectionately called when Story is gone, or Kahlea, as she is called when Story is home, is so vexing her cuteness cannot make up for it. Let me give you a few examples.
Posts by Lesley Bolton:
I love paella. I’ve had several different versions, and each was as tasty as the last. However, I’ve always been too intimidated to try making it. It’s a controversial dish, for sure, with everyone seeming to have his or her own “authentic” recipe. But more than that, I’m not the greatest cook, and there is a lot that goes into any paella recipe. For me, that reads as “there are a lot of opportunities to screw up.” I don’t know if I suddenly had a burst of self-confidence or just too much coffee, but I decided to make paella for our NHN family dinner this month. I’m happy — nay, ecstatic — to say that it was not only edible but pretty darn good. We had rice pudding for dessert — yum. And a dance party topped off the fabulous evening.
I consider myself a pretty hip mom. Ali tells me that this belief in itself proves that I’m not. I may have to, begrudgingly, believe her considering what I learned this past week. I was schooled, yo.
I have a seven-year-old daughter who knows how to use my smartphone better than I do. I’m quite certain she was born with a skill set specific to her generation. While I have only one game for her on my phone and she’s allowed to play it only when I am with her, I still worry about her access. See, I’m hip to the dangers. But the dangers upped their game and I fell a bit behind. Have you heard of vault apps? If not, read on. If so, you totally get the Hip Mom Award and I want to be your friend.
I was driving along, listening to a fabulous book, completely absorbed in the story, minding my own business, and BAM! No, it wasn’t a car wreck; it was a mind wreck. A passage from the book set my mind on an ever-winding course of fear. Not fear for myself. Fear for my daughter, for the unnecessary fears she will undoubtedly face.
During a perfectly pleasant conversation, my daughter abruptly turned serious. “Mom, I need to tell you something.” I can’t tell you all the awful things I imagined to be on the back end of that statement. I was genuinely surprised when she said, “I want a new personality. I want to be goth.” I almost laughed in her face. With relief, of course. What did my little first grader know about being goth?