I just cut the shit out of my thumb washing out one of those little snack peaches cans that Miss O likes. Fucking canned peaches. I always hated those when I was a kid. My mom used to serve us those really slimy canned peach halves and I would gag every time I had to choke one down. It was like swallowing a syrupy human cheek. Pears were no problem, but those peaches... bleh! And it's not like they're good for you or anything -- sure, it's a piece of fruit, but it's basically swimming in liquid candy.
Now, I don't want to sound like my parents didn't treat me well as a kid. They were, and are, fantastic parents. Except for the canned peaches thing. And the sending-me-away-to-Minnesota-for-overnight-camp-for-four-weeks-
when-I-was-only-10 thing. And there was the time I tickled my my mom's foot when she was asleep and she kicked me in the stomach. I think I was five. That was probably the start of my lifelong stomach problems. But really, other than that, stellar parents.
Where was I going with this? Cut my finger... peaches... Miss O... nope, lost it. Though Miss O has been going through some changes of late. Lots of crying and whining -- she cries when we drop her off for camp, she doesn't want to get up in the morning, shit, last night she cried for 20 minutes when I didn't give her a piggyback ride up the stairs for bed. What?! My hands were full of books and dolls and shit!
She's definitely going through a growth-spurt. Whenever the kids are just flipping their lids beyond the normal, day-to-day lid flippage, there's usually some major growth a-spurtin'. I mean, she's basically gained over 10 pounds since last fall. She's probably grown about six inches too. And she's eating like a goddamn horse... with a tapeworm. That girl is gonna be one tall drink of water. Which is fine, as long as she's not that stooped over, big hump on back, really long head, needs a cane to walk, Guinness World Records kinda tall.
I think she's also freaking out about going to kindergarten in the fall. Five days a week, new school, leaving most of her Montessori friends behind. That's some heavy shit for a 4 1/2 year old. Though I think Mr. Z is more freaked than she. He keeps asking things like, "Dad? What if Miss O starts chasing me around on the playground during recess?" And he's not just joking around, either. He's genuinely concerned about that particular scenario. He's asked me about it multiple times. I think it has actually supplanted his death-obsession as the number one thing to worry about as he's falling asleep. Poor guy. Maybe I'll have him start doing wind-sprints in the backyard, so he'll have a fighting chance come September.
Should be an interesting year. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must freshen up the dressing on my seeping wound.