Yesterday, as I waited for my daughter to get ready for the 45th consecutive minute, TO GO TO THE DOG PARK, it occurred to me, that much like the Reed Warbler, I had been Cuckoo-ed, and was, unwittingly, raising someone else’s child, because there was NO WAY that any offspring of mine could possibly be this slow and give this much of a crap about what shorts they wore to a dusty, poop-covered field.
As further proof, before she chose to walk that same dog, today, she changed what she was wearing…to go in the front yard…to watch a dog defecate. I’d like to claim that her obsession with wardrobe only occurs in relation to the canine bowel movements (wait…no, I wouldn’t), but, getting her ready for school, or God forbid shopping, resembles Hannibal at the foot of the Alps.
I’m not sure which of my high-maintenance friends managed to sneak an egg into my basket, but I’ve got my eye on you, Rachel. I’ve seen how long it takes you to get ready to do anything, and it seems “familiar”.
On the off-chance that this kid is mine, I blame my mother. Just because…