It’s not really about the kids

It’s one of those days again. I’m home from work, waiting for the kids to get home from school. Then we have to shop for tomorrow’s school picnic, pack the lunches for the picnic, order my son’s birthday cake, and buy treats to take for his class on his birthday.

See, I just bored myself silly writing that. It’s one of the reasons I couldn’t be a mom blogger; I don’t even care that much about my own list, so I can hardly bear to inflict it on you.

Another reason is that I try on principle not to tell too many of my kids’ stories. It’s kind of a personal soapbox: whenever someone tries to tell one of my stories for me (self-appointed information brokers and newsletter writers, I’m looking at you), they get it wrong. Then I obsess, and roll my eyes, and make oblique references to the event until I can hardly stand myself. I don’t want to put my kids in that position.

Have you ever watched Everybody Loves Raymond? Here’s the opening sequence from one of the seasons, and just by sheer dumb luck, my favorite part — the part that made me look this clip up in the first place — is close captioned on it in the still frame.

That’s pretty nifty, isn’t it?

This isn’t really about the kids, although from time to time I’ll probably mention them. They’re awesome, and someday they’ll be able to tell their own stories themselves. I hope they do, and I hope they choose to let me read them. I thank whatever gods may be that my parents didn’t have a blog when I was growing up. Some things don’t need to be preserved.

For now, you’re just stuck with me. Yes, I do get older and fussier every year. Thanks for noticing.