Backing out of our driveway yesterday morning, Teengirl (who never speaks in the AM because apparently it's against Teen Law), said something about her test and her friends. Honestly, it was a little "blurry" because, well, everything is blurry before 10 a.m. for a non-morning person.
So... when I finally tuned in, she was violating the aforementioned imaginary law by talking about how her teacher had asked a "dumb" question about how the students felt at the end of their test and how most of the students had stated, "tired." (Ahhh... now, we're getting somewhere. I think I had mentioned being tired before she began to speak... it's all coming back to me now). Coffee, anyone?
"So, what did you write down?" I asked.
Teengirl (giggling): "I wrote down 'STUPID.'"
At this point, we both had a good chuckle, and because I felt I'd be remiss as a mother by not asking her why she felt stupid, I asked, but again, mornings are "blurry." So...
We'd barely driven past about five houses when Teengirl squeals..."Bluebird!!!" I looked up, and sure enough there was a bluebird swooping up into some branches, which reminded me of a song I had to play in college in my keyboard class, so of course I had to sing it for her.
Me: "Blue...bird, blue...bird, high in the sky..."
Teengirl: "Moooooom. Ok, ok, stop! That has to be the stupidest song ever."
Me: "Nope. The stupidest song was... [launching into song again] 'Gregory Griggs has seven different wigs...'"
Me [still singing]: "Hmmmm... 3-4-5-3, 2-3-4-2... "
Me: "That's how I remembered which keys to play on the keyboard."
We had another good chuckle. Or maybe it was a guffaw. But, it was definitely too early for a chortle.
After donning my "New Yorker" hat and edging my way into the cross-traffic of "no cutting!" drivers, we noted a gaggle of boys we've dubbed "the 6th grade posse" all walking together down the sidewalk. First I mentioned how the word 'posse' was passé, which garnered a well-deserved groan. Then, I mentioned that I thought they needed their own theme song. Perhaps something from Grease or West Side Story. Note to self: Educate kids on these two cinematic classics.
Shortly thereafter, we were winding through the parking at our usual stop-and-go pace. At this point, I hand out the ever-dreaded masks in preparation for for their 7-hour stint. Oh, I mention masks, as in plural, because during this entire exchange, my other teen (I have 3. Help me.), who happens to have Down syndrome, was in the car just quietly taking it all in.
Poor guy. He was probably thinking... 'Any day now I'll get to speak.' Not today, son. Sorry.
As we rounded the corner, we encountered "cone man," who (you guessed it!) mans the cones that separate the two lanes that merge inside the lot (you know, since we can't seem to figure out how to do this whole left-right-left-righ-left-right and so-on thing by ourselves like big boys and girls). Finally, he shut down the flow of the other lane like a skilled traffic plumber and allowed our lane to trickle in. Sorry, but that's the only plumbing vocab I can muster up at the moment.
Before I dropped them off, I heard one more tidbit from the girl about how I was an overprotective parent, blah blah... BLAH...
Hey, another bluebird!
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