The latest episode of "Modern Family" cracked me up. Of course, it always cracks me up. But the whole storyline of Claire and Phil with their role playing going slightly awry had me on the floor.
Still the idea was intriguing, and it got me thinking. What would happen in our household . . . ?
Me: David, want to try some role playing?
D: No.
Me: Come on. It'd be fun.
D: No.
Me: Okay, you're the lord of the manor, and your eye is caught by the earthy milkmaid.
D: A milkmaid? You hate cows.
Me: Forget the cows. It's pretend. Let's start again. You're the lusty lord of the manor, and the earthy milkmaid has caught your eye. But you can't have me because I'm too far below your station.
D: My station?
Me: It means we come from different classes.
D: I know what it means. But come on, my station? The only station I could be in is Grand Central, or maybe South Kensington if you're insisting on this whole lord of the manor England thing.
Me: (quickly changing gears) Okay, then you're a shy shoe shiner working on one of the platforms in Grand Central Station. You've seen me almost every day, but haven't been able to bring yourself to talk to me.
D: Why can't I talk to you? Is this another station thing?
Me: No, we're separated by the tracks. You work on one side shining shoes, I work on the other selling baked goods.
D: Baked goods? Do you mean doughnuts?
Me: If you want.
D: Because you know I'd only be interested in the doughnuts, not the person selling them. And besides, you'd probably be a little on the chubby side. Or is that what you mean by earthy?
Me: Did you just call me fat?
D: Well, you would be if you were selling doughnuts. Did I ever tell you about the time I worked in a doughnut shop when I was a teenager? Fifteen pounds in three weeks. But maybe you have good teeth.
Me: I think I'm going to throw myself on the tracks.
D: There aren't any tracks around here.
Me: FINE! I hear the garbage truck coming down the street. I'll go throw myself in front of it.
D: Now you're a sanitation worker? That's even worse than the whole station thing.
Me: ARRRRGH!
Friday, February 12, 2010
A Typical Conversation in the George Household
S: Mom, look! I can inhale my upper lip!
Me: What?
S: I can inhale my lip. I can almost suck it into my nostril. I'll have to work on that.
Me: Well, everybody needs a goal in life, sweetie. Nice to see you have one.
D: Sabrina, that's disgusting! I can't believe you're doing that! Calvin, stop that! Quit imitating her.
a short while later . . .
Me: David, what are you doing?
D: Nothing.
Me: Because it looks like you're pushing your lip up with your fingers and breathing very deeply.
D: Uh --
Me: Harder than it looks, huh, dear?
Me: What?
S: I can inhale my lip. I can almost suck it into my nostril. I'll have to work on that.
Me: Well, everybody needs a goal in life, sweetie. Nice to see you have one.
D: Sabrina, that's disgusting! I can't believe you're doing that! Calvin, stop that! Quit imitating her.
a short while later . . .
Me: David, what are you doing?
D: Nothing.
Me: Because it looks like you're pushing your lip up with your fingers and breathing very deeply.
D: Uh --
Me: Harder than it looks, huh, dear?
Raisin' Them There Girls Right
So, it turns out Sabrina and Rose LOOOOVE “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood. I guess I could blame their Aunt Rebecca since she introduced the song to me, but it's off of my play list that the girls have heard it, so mea culpa. They don’t know the words to any of the verses other than, “Right now . . .” But when the chorus comes, boy, do those girls rock it.
The family was in the car yesterday, and I had my iPod play list running, and sure enough that song comes on. At the chorus, the girls start singing at the top of their lungs. For those of you who are not familiar with this song, to wit:
The family was in the car yesterday, and I had my iPod play list running, and sure enough that song comes on. At the chorus, the girls start singing at the top of their lungs. For those of you who are not familiar with this song, to wit:
And he don't know . . .David turns and looks at me, horrified. I can’t tell if it’s because they know the lyrics to the song or the fact they’re listening to (and enjoying) country. But my guess is that he’s a bit concerned that his little girls are singing about messing up some guy’s ride. I just shrug and say it’s healthy for a girl to learn that she shouldn’t let any man walk all over her. Then I laugh hysterically. He just shakes his head, but he’s one to talk. He introduced them to Lady Gaga.
That I dug my keys into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive,
Carved my name into his leather seats.
I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights,
Slashed a hole in all four tires.
And maybe next time he'll think before he cheats.
Critical Thinking
Me: Sabrina, I got a note from your teacher that everyone has signed up for a day and time for their oral book reports. What did you sign up for?
S: A week from Thursday, the very last time slot available.
Me: Why so far out?
S: Well, you remember my oral reports on "The Pearl" and also on Greek gods and goddesses?
Me: Yes. How did those go by the way?
S: I never gave them. We ran out of time. So I figured if I signed up for the last time slot for this report, there's a good chance I wouldn't have to do this one either.
I'm only slightly ashamed to say that I gave her a high-five and complimented her on her critical thinking skills.
S: A week from Thursday, the very last time slot available.
Me: Why so far out?
S: Well, you remember my oral reports on "The Pearl" and also on Greek gods and goddesses?
Me: Yes. How did those go by the way?
S: I never gave them. We ran out of time. So I figured if I signed up for the last time slot for this report, there's a good chance I wouldn't have to do this one either.
I'm only slightly ashamed to say that I gave her a high-five and complimented her on her critical thinking skills.
Two Jobs
I am getting really tired of what happens at bedtime around here. What should be a simple routine inevitably ends up with someone (starting with a kid, but ending up with me) upset. And lights aren't turned out until well after 9:30 p.m. Since I turn into a pumpkin somewhere between 9:30 and 10:00 p.m., this isn't really working for me. I thought it was time to institute a new procedure. And to make things go more smoothly, I decided to start on a night when David would not be home.
Last night I called all the children together at 7:45 p.m. and told them it was time to start getting ready for bed. They had two, just two, jobs. One, they needed to brush their teeth and, two, they needed to get their pajamas on. I made it very clear that those were their only two jobs, and nothing else should be done. If those two jobs were not done, or if they decided to add something else in, reading privileges would be lost for that evening. "Remember" I said, "you only have TWO jobs, just two." Everyone acknowledged they heard and understood.
How did it work out? Well, as you might surmise since I'm writing about it, not as well as one would have hoped considering how many times I reiterated that there were only two jobs that I was interested in them completing. (Did I mention I wanted them to do two jobs?)
Less than a minute after I sent them upstairs, I heard the whoopee cushion. That gave me pause since that sound was definitely not germane to either of the TWO jobs. I mean, can you think of a way of explaining why a whoopee cushion might be needed to brush your teeth or get your pajamas on? No, I couldn't either. I was thinking about how to handle this when the whoopee cushion made its presence known again. Only this time there was screaming, crying, and door slamming immediately following. (I will pause here to give a huge, heartfelt thank you to the kids' Aunt Rebecca for giving Calvin that Christmas gift. Too bad you live in England so I can't thank you personally.)
By this point I'm half exasperated, half amused, so I go upstairs to investigate. I find Calvin in his room, still fully dressed with crocodile tears leaking from his eyes. I asked him if he remembered what his two jobs were. He promptly replied, "Brush my teeth and get my jammies on." I gave him a light swat on the butt and asked, "Do you know what that was for?" He said, "Uh-huh."
I then went into Sabrina's room (the source of the previous yelling and door slamming) and asked her what had happened. "Well, mother," she informed me, "I found Calvin's whoopee cushion in the hallway and thought I would be so kind as to return it to him. Of course, it made a little sound, but I wasn't doing it to upset him. I was just giving it back. THEN, he came into my room, my PRIVATE room, when I wasn't looking and made it fart in my ear! He scared me so badly that I am still frightened at this moment."
I gave her a light swat on the behind. She looked totally shocked and asked what that was for. I said that as "thoughtful" as she had been to return a toy to her brother's room, that task was not included on the list of TWO things I had given her to do and therefore she had disobeyed me. And besides, what kind of reaction had she expected from her brother? She flounced to her bed, but the drama just wasn't there. It's hard to flounce up a ladder into a loft bed.
I then went back to Calvin's room, only to find him in his bed, reading a book while fully clothed. I told him to get up, and again I gave him a light swat. He looked totally confused and said, "What was that for?" I asked yet again, "What were your two jobs?" He answered, "Brushing my teeth and putting on my jammies." I said, "Look down at yourself." He did. He said, "Oh," and went to start on his jobs. Two of them.
Last night I called all the children together at 7:45 p.m. and told them it was time to start getting ready for bed. They had two, just two, jobs. One, they needed to brush their teeth and, two, they needed to get their pajamas on. I made it very clear that those were their only two jobs, and nothing else should be done. If those two jobs were not done, or if they decided to add something else in, reading privileges would be lost for that evening. "Remember" I said, "you only have TWO jobs, just two." Everyone acknowledged they heard and understood.
How did it work out? Well, as you might surmise since I'm writing about it, not as well as one would have hoped considering how many times I reiterated that there were only two jobs that I was interested in them completing. (Did I mention I wanted them to do two jobs?)
Less than a minute after I sent them upstairs, I heard the whoopee cushion. That gave me pause since that sound was definitely not germane to either of the TWO jobs. I mean, can you think of a way of explaining why a whoopee cushion might be needed to brush your teeth or get your pajamas on? No, I couldn't either. I was thinking about how to handle this when the whoopee cushion made its presence known again. Only this time there was screaming, crying, and door slamming immediately following. (I will pause here to give a huge, heartfelt thank you to the kids' Aunt Rebecca for giving Calvin that Christmas gift. Too bad you live in England so I can't thank you personally.)
By this point I'm half exasperated, half amused, so I go upstairs to investigate. I find Calvin in his room, still fully dressed with crocodile tears leaking from his eyes. I asked him if he remembered what his two jobs were. He promptly replied, "Brush my teeth and get my jammies on." I gave him a light swat on the butt and asked, "Do you know what that was for?" He said, "Uh-huh."
I then went into Sabrina's room (the source of the previous yelling and door slamming) and asked her what had happened. "Well, mother," she informed me, "I found Calvin's whoopee cushion in the hallway and thought I would be so kind as to return it to him. Of course, it made a little sound, but I wasn't doing it to upset him. I was just giving it back. THEN, he came into my room, my PRIVATE room, when I wasn't looking and made it fart in my ear! He scared me so badly that I am still frightened at this moment."
I gave her a light swat on the behind. She looked totally shocked and asked what that was for. I said that as "thoughtful" as she had been to return a toy to her brother's room, that task was not included on the list of TWO things I had given her to do and therefore she had disobeyed me. And besides, what kind of reaction had she expected from her brother? She flounced to her bed, but the drama just wasn't there. It's hard to flounce up a ladder into a loft bed.
I then went back to Calvin's room, only to find him in his bed, reading a book while fully clothed. I told him to get up, and again I gave him a light swat. He looked totally confused and said, "What was that for?" I asked yet again, "What were your two jobs?" He answered, "Brushing my teeth and putting on my jammies." I said, "Look down at yourself." He did. He said, "Oh," and went to start on his jobs. Two of them.
Color Theory
My esteemed brother whose birthday is a mere three days before Christmas made it known that he would like a Dairy Queen ice cream cake to celebrate his illustrious day. So my dad and I trekked out to the only Dairy Queen that was open to purchase said cake.
There were three cakes left, all white with red trim. The clerk said, "Would you like a message on it?" We said, "Yes, how about 'Happy Birthday, Douglas!'?" We're nothing if not creative. "What color would you like the writing in?" At this point my dad said, "Green." But I protested.
My brother has always disliked having his birthday so close to Christmas, feeling like he often got gypped. With comments like, "Douglas, here's your Birthday/Christmas present," I couldn't blame him. So I said that green writing with red trim looked a bit too Christmas-y. I suggested red writing to match the red trim.
At this point the clerk jumped in and said, "We don't have red." I said, "Yes, you do. Look this very cake has red trim." And the clerk said, "Well, the writing icing comes in different colors than the trim. For writing messages we only have primary colors, like green."
I opened my mouth again to debate color theory, but seeing this would go nowhere, my dad stomped on my foot and said, "Green is fine."
Sorry, Douglas. I tried.
There were three cakes left, all white with red trim. The clerk said, "Would you like a message on it?" We said, "Yes, how about 'Happy Birthday, Douglas!'?" We're nothing if not creative. "What color would you like the writing in?" At this point my dad said, "Green." But I protested.
My brother has always disliked having his birthday so close to Christmas, feeling like he often got gypped. With comments like, "Douglas, here's your Birthday/Christmas present," I couldn't blame him. So I said that green writing with red trim looked a bit too Christmas-y. I suggested red writing to match the red trim.
At this point the clerk jumped in and said, "We don't have red." I said, "Yes, you do. Look this very cake has red trim." And the clerk said, "Well, the writing icing comes in different colors than the trim. For writing messages we only have primary colors, like green."
I opened my mouth again to debate color theory, but seeing this would go nowhere, my dad stomped on my foot and said, "Green is fine."
Sorry, Douglas. I tried.
Christmas Wishes
Attached to my present from my children was a homemade card. It had a cute Christmas tree and a string of lights decorating it, and the following words:
Blech! Christmas! I hate Christmas. Kids screaming, putting up lights, setting up trees, kids screaming, traveling with kids, Christmas cheer, kids screaming, sledding, traveling back, kids screaming, wrapping presents . . . Did I mention kids screaming? Merry Christmas, Mom!Perhaps teaching them the fine art of sarcasm wasn't such a great idea after all.
Spelling Bee
Rose was in the school spelling bee, again. She has made the school finals a number of her elementary school years. And as proud as I am of her, there's a tiny part of me that goes, "Really? Rosie? Are you sure?"
Don't get me wrong, I know she's a bright little girl. But she really doesn't like to read. I think it's because most books cannot compete with her imagination. They're too boring compared to what is going on in Rosie World. I'm a good speller and so is Sabrina, but we read a lot. I just always kind of assumed that good spellers come from good readers, people who see lots of different kinds of words. But while I am good at spelling, I am apparently not so good at learning/education theories.
Because Rose is a great speller. Her first spelling bee was in kindergarten. Who does spelling bees in kindergarten? The whacko school I had enrolled my child in apparently. I'd put her in an all-day kindergarten to occupy her mind. She didn't like her preschool anymore, cried if I made her go. So I had decided to keep her home. Preschool or lack thereof wouldn't hurt her. But I quickly learned that I couldn't keep up with the girl.
She was constantly asking me to do things and create things to go along with the stories in her mind. I would just look at her and go, "Say what? I can't do that!" And she'd sigh and go figure it out on her own. Once she said, "Mom, can you please make me a roller coaster for my stuffed animals?" I said, "No, of course not, sweetie. How in the world would I do that?" (You can just see the creative juices flowing through me, can't you?)
She heaved her little you're-such-a-disappointment-to-me sigh and disappeared for a few hours. Later on, she came by where I was working and said, "Mom, come see my roller coaster." And darned if she hadn't gone and built one in our dining room out of paper, cardboard, and tape. What do you do with a kid like that? I decided to put her in an all-day kindergarten to get her out of my hair, er, to stimulate her little brain.
A couple months later her kindergarten teacher pulled me aside and said, "Mrs. George, Rose won the spelling bee and is going on to regionals!" I said, "Huh?" She gave one of those sighs I've come to be so familiar with and repeated, "Rose won the spelling bee. She's moving on to the regionals." I said, "But she doesn't even read yet. How can she have won the spelling bee?" The poor teacher looked at me in disbelief and said, "Of course she can read. She reads quite well."
That little stinker. I'd read with her, encouraged her with the sounding out of words, tried to get her to read books about Biscuit the dog to me. I was so anxious to introduce her into the wonderful world of books, but she just wouldn't do it. I had assumed it was because she wasn't ready yet. Oh, she was ready to read all right, just not to me.
I went home and told David. "Rose won the spelling bee today. She's going to regionals." I was gratified to see that his reaction was the same as mine. And that was the start of an illustrious spelling career. Today in the finals she spelled urgent, fertilize, psychoanalysis, and photosynthesis. She bit the dust on lobbyist and then migraine. Not bad for a little girl who really doesn't like to read.
Rituals
David is out of town for the week, and before he left, the last thing he said to the children was, "Be good. Mom is going to need a lot of help this week. Don't make her job harder." A kind gesture, but really just a lot of wasted air there.
The kids have been extremely well-behaved. The hours from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. have been a joy. But then they come home, and our daily ritual begins. Here's how it goes:
1. The kids burst through the door with Sabrina yelling about how hungry she is. No one has EVER been as hungry as she is now, and food better appear before her pretty damn quick. I tell her she can get her own, which sets up the attitude she sports for the rest of the afternoon and evening. The others decide they're hungry, too, but seeing which way the wind is blowing quietly go about finding their own snack.
2. I go upstairs to check my email. It doesn't take long for the ruckus to begin. Voices start to escalate. The reasons why vary. Maybe they're arguing over who is to blame for the overturned table. Maybe they're playing Ninja again and someone got karate chopped on the neck. Maybe they just don't like the way someone was looking at them. Whatever the cause, neighbors down the street are starting to consider calling the police because of the public disturbance.
3. I come back downstairs and add my voice to the mix. All three are sent to their rooms with instructions to get cracking on their homework and not to leave their rooms.
4. I play hall monitor and get absolutely nothing done for the next hour and a half, because apparently my order of "Don't leave your room for any reason" is not explicit enough. Someone has to go to the bathroom. Someone else needs a protractor that's in their sibling's room. So-and-so is using their favorite pencil. A stuffed animal needs to be consulted on a particularly difficult math problem. I catch them and send them back to their rooms, and each and every time they are completely surprised they have been apprehended (even though I'm sitting right there keeping watch).
5. Sabrina informs me that once again she is STARVING, and could we please have dinner now? After working all day and then playing referee, I'm exhausted. Plus, I have nothing to eat in the house, so we get takeout.
6. Dinner is finished, but homework still is not. Kids start to get anxious about time slipping away. They have been told if all jobs get done on time, they can watch a Christmas special we had taped earlier. They start working frantically, but too much time has elapsed, and their deadline comes and goes (as it has every night this week).
7. Kids get even more anxious and work even faster, somehow thinking that I will relent and actually let them start watching their show at 9 p.m. When told the answer is no, and they should go to bed now, I get various reactions ranging from negotiation to silent pouts to loud tears.
8. I play hall monitor again, trying to keep the kids in their beds but failing. Somebody forgot to brush their teeth. A stuffed animal was left in the car. Cough medicine needs to be administered. A forgotten homework assignment due tomorrow has suddenly been remembered.
9. I go downstairs, pour a glass of wine, and plop down on the couch, too tired to start the movie I'd been planning on watching. I give up and just go to bed and consider whether to start drinking earlier tomorrow.
The kids have been extremely well-behaved. The hours from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. have been a joy. But then they come home, and our daily ritual begins. Here's how it goes:
1. The kids burst through the door with Sabrina yelling about how hungry she is. No one has EVER been as hungry as she is now, and food better appear before her pretty damn quick. I tell her she can get her own, which sets up the attitude she sports for the rest of the afternoon and evening. The others decide they're hungry, too, but seeing which way the wind is blowing quietly go about finding their own snack.
2. I go upstairs to check my email. It doesn't take long for the ruckus to begin. Voices start to escalate. The reasons why vary. Maybe they're arguing over who is to blame for the overturned table. Maybe they're playing Ninja again and someone got karate chopped on the neck. Maybe they just don't like the way someone was looking at them. Whatever the cause, neighbors down the street are starting to consider calling the police because of the public disturbance.
3. I come back downstairs and add my voice to the mix. All three are sent to their rooms with instructions to get cracking on their homework and not to leave their rooms.
4. I play hall monitor and get absolutely nothing done for the next hour and a half, because apparently my order of "Don't leave your room for any reason" is not explicit enough. Someone has to go to the bathroom. Someone else needs a protractor that's in their sibling's room. So-and-so is using their favorite pencil. A stuffed animal needs to be consulted on a particularly difficult math problem. I catch them and send them back to their rooms, and each and every time they are completely surprised they have been apprehended (even though I'm sitting right there keeping watch).
5. Sabrina informs me that once again she is STARVING, and could we please have dinner now? After working all day and then playing referee, I'm exhausted. Plus, I have nothing to eat in the house, so we get takeout.
6. Dinner is finished, but homework still is not. Kids start to get anxious about time slipping away. They have been told if all jobs get done on time, they can watch a Christmas special we had taped earlier. They start working frantically, but too much time has elapsed, and their deadline comes and goes (as it has every night this week).
7. Kids get even more anxious and work even faster, somehow thinking that I will relent and actually let them start watching their show at 9 p.m. When told the answer is no, and they should go to bed now, I get various reactions ranging from negotiation to silent pouts to loud tears.
8. I play hall monitor again, trying to keep the kids in their beds but failing. Somebody forgot to brush their teeth. A stuffed animal was left in the car. Cough medicine needs to be administered. A forgotten homework assignment due tomorrow has suddenly been remembered.
9. I go downstairs, pour a glass of wine, and plop down on the couch, too tired to start the movie I'd been planning on watching. I give up and just go to bed and consider whether to start drinking earlier tomorrow.
High on Life
Rose is (was?) a cautious individual. She was the baby who only tolerated being thrown up in the air and the toddler who would scream hysterically if you tried turning her upside down. She didn't learn to ride a bike until well after seven years of age because bikes just go too fast. As recently as this summer she still got a little panicky when going down hills because who knows what could happen when bikes go above three miles per hour? I bet she's the only kid who had to have the brakes replaced on a bike with training wheels.
While the pace at which she ambles through life is often an aggravation for my Type A go-go-go personality, I understand her in general. I never went on a big rollercoaster until I met David. Going over the speed limit scares me slightly. So I thought I'd have a buddy to pal around with on our last trip to Disneyland. We could hit Small World, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, and for a rip-roaring time do Soarin' Over California . . . on the top row.
But the first ride we hit when the gates opened, by consensus of the whole group, was Space Mountain. Rose had tried it once in the past, screamed in sheer terror the whole time, and didn't talk to me for 24 hours since I was somehow to blame for the nightmare she had just endured. So I was somewhat surprised when she said she was going, too.
I did some subtle maneuvering in line and made sure that someone else sat beside her. I certainly didn't want to get blamed again. And I patted myself on the back for my quick thinking as, sure enough, she screamed the whole way. But when she got off the ride, what she said was, "THAT WAS AWESOME!!! AGAIN!!!" and promptly ran off to get in line for the next round.
There was no stopping her after that. She rode the Matterhorn. She rode Big Thunder Mountain. She rode Splash Mountain. And then she went over to California Adventure for the really big rides. First up, the Maliboomer. For those of you unfamiliar with this ridiculous ride, they strap you in a chair that is attached to an 18-story tower. They shoot your chair up the tower at 45 miles per hour, and then let you freefall back to the ground. Yours truly, of course, would never get on that ride, not being sure which way the vomit would go. It would be awful to barf on the way up, but have it hit your face on the way back down.
Rose, though, screamed, "THIS IS THE BEST RIDE EVER!!!" on the way up and laughed hysterically on the way down. She even did the California Screaming rollercoaster which has a loop-de-loop. Yes, she will now even go upside down if it gives her the rush. Who could have guessed? My cautious, careful girl has turned into an adrenaline junkie.
While the pace at which she ambles through life is often an aggravation for my Type A go-go-go personality, I understand her in general. I never went on a big rollercoaster until I met David. Going over the speed limit scares me slightly. So I thought I'd have a buddy to pal around with on our last trip to Disneyland. We could hit Small World, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, and for a rip-roaring time do Soarin' Over California . . . on the top row.
But the first ride we hit when the gates opened, by consensus of the whole group, was Space Mountain. Rose had tried it once in the past, screamed in sheer terror the whole time, and didn't talk to me for 24 hours since I was somehow to blame for the nightmare she had just endured. So I was somewhat surprised when she said she was going, too.
I did some subtle maneuvering in line and made sure that someone else sat beside her. I certainly didn't want to get blamed again. And I patted myself on the back for my quick thinking as, sure enough, she screamed the whole way. But when she got off the ride, what she said was, "THAT WAS AWESOME!!! AGAIN!!!" and promptly ran off to get in line for the next round.
There was no stopping her after that. She rode the Matterhorn. She rode Big Thunder Mountain. She rode Splash Mountain. And then she went over to California Adventure for the really big rides. First up, the Maliboomer. For those of you unfamiliar with this ridiculous ride, they strap you in a chair that is attached to an 18-story tower. They shoot your chair up the tower at 45 miles per hour, and then let you freefall back to the ground. Yours truly, of course, would never get on that ride, not being sure which way the vomit would go. It would be awful to barf on the way up, but have it hit your face on the way back down.
Rose, though, screamed, "THIS IS THE BEST RIDE EVER!!!" on the way up and laughed hysterically on the way down. She even did the California Screaming rollercoaster which has a loop-de-loop. Yes, she will now even go upside down if it gives her the rush. Who could have guessed? My cautious, careful girl has turned into an adrenaline junkie.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)