Thursday, January 26, 2012

Dirty Cups, Volume 429


Scott has been taking a class at his bike shop that begins with spinning and ends with yoga. The first time he has ever done this.

On Sunday, I left the kids with my parents in the morning, because we had a barbaric corpse viewing later that afternoon (the opinions expressed in this blog belong to the author alone and do not reflect the opinions of other perfectly sane people.) Scott had gone into the office, so he sent me a text asking if I wanted to do some yoga before that.


I may not have completely mastered the breathing technique, but Potter totally makes up for it. His Darth Vader impression is spot on.

Scott is more flexible than you would imagine.

It is really weird to do yoga in your house with one other person when that person isn’t a little kid that doesn’t know if you are doing something incorrectly.

Scott and I both have trouble knowing our left from right.

It may be a prerequisite for yoga instructors not to have any boobs.

When I fell down my steps last October, I really screwed up my ankle. How is one supposed to meditate if they can’t comfortably cross their legs?


There is a whole lot of opinion out there on how to raise confident girls that aren’t obsessed with body image. (Basically, don’t let them watch television or read magazines. Ever.) I don’t try to over analyze it too much, but the other day I read a blog that got me thinking about certain things that I say to Morgan and Zoe.

So now, when they model their outfits for me or show off the lipstick they smeared all over their face when I wasn’t looking, I have a pretty standard response. “You look very pretty. But what’s more important than being pretty?” I’m looking for something along the lines of “being a nice person.” Below are some select responses from Zoe in no particular order. Exclamation is hers.

Babies. (naturally)


Brushing your teeth. (shout out to Papa Turtle, DDS)

Rugs (wtf?)


We were thankful recipients of children’s theater tickets, due to poor little Ian being too sick to go. There were three short performances based on the books of Eric Carle (The Very Hungry Catepillar; Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See; and Papa, Can You Get Me the Moon – or something like that…I had never heard of it.)

I got halfway out the driveway and realized I had left the tickets on the dining room table. Upon finally finding a parking spot and walking halfway to the theater I realized I left the tickets sitting on the front seat of my car. Moral of this story: I am an idiot.

The announcements prior to the play noted that this was a “No Shhhh Production” and that the children were welcome to clap and laugh and shout out what was coming next.

Basically, most of the children immediately erupted in laughter just at the mere sight of the caterpillar. In several instances I felt this laughter might have been a little forced. Just laughing because they were told they could. Which I suppose is better than laughing just because they were told not to.

“I’m just trying to make a point, Frank. You don’t have to celebrate it.” – Beanie (Old School)

Zoe was not so easily led astray. She calmly sat through each story, sometimes leaning forward, sometimes resting her head on her hand in a pondering manner. She looked neither excited nor bored.

The eight-year-old kid behind me kept kicking my seat and making completely irrelevant comments. Most of you may think, “Surely, as a mom, you can understand that.”

But this is where I admit I rarely feel like putting up with my own kids annoying habits. Why the hell would I want to put up with yours?

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