My son had just started seventh grade, only to come down with a fever and cold symptoms on the third day -- his birthday, no less. After spending the day at home, with me dosing him with cold meds all day long, he emerged from what I thought was a deep slumber at about 11:45 pm. Coincidentally, this was almost exactly twelve years to the minute of his emerging from my womb, helped along by a vacuum suction contraption since it was almost midnight and I think the doctor really wanted to go home. Twelve years ago, he did not let out a big healthy cry for a few moments, since he had copious amounts of snot clogging up his system. When he finally let out that cry, I breathed a sigh of relief and stared at his little face.
Tonight, I stared again, as my son -- again, full of snot -- started to speak. I listened hard, but could not make sense of it. “What did you say?” I asked. He repeated. “What?” I said again, to his annoyance. This went on for a while, until I realized he was saying words that did not exist in any language we knew. It went something like this:
“So, Mom, there were like, these cudjins ...”
“Cushions?”
“No, Mom, cudjins ... so they were like ...”
“Wait, Miles, I didn’t quite hear you ... did you say 'cushions' (pointing at cushions)?”
“Nooooo, Mom. Cudjins! You know, cudjins ...”
Oh my god, my son was delusional. I grabbed his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Miles!”
“What?!!” he said, slightly shocked at my panicked demeanor.
“What’s your name? Do you know your name?”
“Uhhh ... Miles.”
“Okay, what day is it?”
“My birthday.”
“What’s my name?”
“Uhhh, ‘Mom’ (dripping with sarcasm).”
Okay, he seemed lucid enough at this point, but I was still worried that the fever had messed up his brain. What to do, what to do? I get on the internet and start Googling. Not much help. I find the hotline on the cough syrup and call; the customer service rep from the Triaminic hotline who said this was not a known issue, and that I should go to the ER.
We get checked in quickly, but then the wait begins. We wait in an examination room, where my son is reclining comfortably in the hospital bed watching cartoons. I am sitting in a very hard plastic chair, wanting to lie down. How bad would it be if I made my son sit over here while I took a little nap? Or maybe I could just have him scoot over a little tiny bit ...
I decide it would be really bad form if I kicked my son out of the hospital bed, and I doze off in the hard plastic chair. I wake up and look at the clock. 2:13 am. I hear the sound of more urgent patients being wheeled down the hall, while I look at my son, still watching TV and looking pretty darn healthy at this point.
I go to find a nurse. “Excuse me -- can we leave now?”
“Oh, don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you. You’re next on the list.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock. A little girl and her parents are wheeled into our room, and a doctor comes in immediately to check on her. I move my feet out of the way so the doctor doesn’t trip over me, his coat grazing my knee as he passes. I look up, hoping to make eye contact. Not a chance. I feel like a piece of furniture.
I go down the hall and find a different nurse. “Excuse me, can we leave?”
”Well, you could,” she looks me over and then proceeds with a little attitude in her voice, “but presumably you brought him in for some reason.”
“Uhh, yes, but those symptoms happened four hours ago. He seems fine now.”
“Don’t worry -- you are next on the list,” she says with a smile.
Sigh. Finally, finally, finally at about 4 am, the young, fresh-faced resident doc arrives and interrupts the cartoon-watching. She examines my son and goes over a variety of possible explanations for his delusional behavior, none of which are serious. The “real” doctor comes in about twenty minutes later, confirms what the resident had said, and then sums it up in a nutshell: “This is not uncommon with high fevers.”
Okay. So why did that not pop up on my Google search?
We stumble back into our house before 5 am. “This is the worst birthday ever!” my son moans as he crawls back into his bed. I give him a hug. I can’t disagree, but I feel strangely philosophical about the past five hours. Our trip to the ER has been an eye-opener. During my waking moments, I overheard doctors give vague and uncertain explanations to parents of a girl who was clearly in distress, with the parents reacting calmly, as if they have been here in the ER before, many times. I saw another girl come in for asthma treatments -- her weary-looking young parents also looking like they are very familiar with the ER -- and I am guessing that they either have no health insurance, or their insurance does not cover prescriptions, because my kids have asthma, too, but we have a nebulizer at home that is covered by our insurance.
As I climb back into bed, I try to turn off my analysis of the healthcare system and focus on being home again. I can hear my son in his room, already asleep: snotty, snoring and non-delusional. This gurgling, congested buzzsaw sound has never been more reassuring. All in all, definitely worth the wait.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
The Caucus Classic
Another year, another attempted round of golf. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. All the foursomes have driven their little golf vehicles to their respective starting holes. After going over a few administrative loose ends, I run up to the first tee, where my husband and his cousins, Matt and Jason, are getting ready to tee off. I exhale, trying not to think about the logistics of the tournament.
As I am waiting for my turn to hit, I think back to 1994 when we had our first tournament with a field of 32 players, and no idea that we would still be doing this in 2008. But here we are, our organizing committee -- Audee, Ed, Manny, Gary and I -- filling our roles in making this tournament happen. Just to set the record straight, I want to put it in writing that the Caucus Classic was my idea. Got it? My idea! I was the one who floated the idea in the early ‘90s. Okay, so nothing ever happened with that, but it was still a good idea.
The reality, of course, is that it takes more than a good idea to get something like this off the ground, and the Caucus Classic would not have taken shape if Ed Lee had not taken up golf. The golf bug did not just bite Ed, it devoured him. He became a serious Golf Fiend. As his daughter once lamented to me: “The day my dad learned to golf was the worst day of our lives.” Sometime in 1994, Ed says, “Hey! Let’s have a golf tournament for the Caucus!” and the rest, as they say, is history. Ed suggested a few names, including “The Edwin M. Lee Invitational” and “The Edwin M. Lee Charity Golf Classic.” Since Ed really is the heart and soul of this tournament, those names would have been appropriate. But we still decided on the “Caucus Classic.”
I look over at Jason, who would have been a freshly graduated free-wheeling bachelor in 1994, and Matt, who would have been in elementary school. This tournament is older than my kids. Uh-oh. My turn to hit. Must stop thinking about being old. Not a good swing thought.
I fumble through the golf bag my husband has assembled for me. Since I play once a year, it’s like a goodie bag -- half the fun is finding out what’s inside. Heeeey, what’s this? He actually put the Lady Bertha driver in here! It’s the prettiest club in my bag. I usually hit my Uncle Min’s old Lynx 3 wood off the tee. But this Bertha looks so nice! Maybe I should try to hit it! No, maybe not. I could never hit it very well before. Too much flex. But maybe flex will be a good thing now, since I’m so old. Okay, I’ll try it. Why not?
THUNK. Sigh. Golf is harder than I remember. But I must persevere, because golf is a game of hope. There are multiple chances for redemption on every hole. (In my case, usually about four chances more per hole than you are supposed to have, but it is redemption, nonetheless.) I make the short walk over to my ball, and swing away. THUNK. Sigh. At least it went a little farther this time, and I can justify getting in the cart to actually ride over to my ball for the next shot. I continue my quest for redemption. I can hear my late father-in-law’s voice inside my head: “Golf is as easy as 1 (set-up), 2 (take it back), 3 (swing and follow through). Easy as 1, 2, 3.”
Okay, I can do this. Easy as 1 ... 2 ... 3 ...! Yes! The ball is in the air! It is going farther than I can spit! And in the general direction of the hole! I did it! I am Tiger Woods! Golf is an awesome game! Oh, how I love this game! Oh, how I love watching the ball fly through the air instead of hitting some obscure not-supposed-to-be-in-play tiny little metal sign in front of the water hazard! I love golf!
The fairway reaches out to me with lush green open arms, its undulating terrain beckoning me to play on. Even the cattails seem to be reaching out to me. The course loves me. Golf is such an awesome game. I wonder why I don’t play more often? Golf is so much fun! Hmmm, what club should I hit next? This one looks good, I’ll just use this one. Nice and easy. Good, confident swing thoughts. Happy swing thoughts! Golf is as easy as 1... 2... THUNK. Sigh.
This game sucks.
“Hey, Matt -- did I play last year, or did I leave to watch the kids?” I ask Matt, the youngest member of our foursome, because he still remembers things.
“Yeah. I think you played about six holes,” he says with a smile. (It’s always good to say potentially disparaging things with a smile.)
“Huh. What hole are we on now?”
“This is the third hole.”
I groan silently at the thought of fifteen more holes of torture. Then I realize that I am not groaning silently, but that others can actually hear me. They can probably see me rolling my eyes, too.
By the sixth hole, I am enjoying my round. I have hit my stride, found my groove and am feelin’ groovy. Coincidentally, I have also stopped golfing, and am concentrating on eating snacks. I could use a Twix bar right now. And a Diet Coke. Where is that drink cart, anyway? I watch as my husband hits an incredible drive down the fairway, getting my redemption vicariously. Now this is fun and relaxing. It’s a beautiful day. Life is good.
As I am waiting for my turn to hit, I think back to 1994 when we had our first tournament with a field of 32 players, and no idea that we would still be doing this in 2008. But here we are, our organizing committee -- Audee, Ed, Manny, Gary and I -- filling our roles in making this tournament happen. Just to set the record straight, I want to put it in writing that the Caucus Classic was my idea. Got it? My idea! I was the one who floated the idea in the early ‘90s. Okay, so nothing ever happened with that, but it was still a good idea.
The reality, of course, is that it takes more than a good idea to get something like this off the ground, and the Caucus Classic would not have taken shape if Ed Lee had not taken up golf. The golf bug did not just bite Ed, it devoured him. He became a serious Golf Fiend. As his daughter once lamented to me: “The day my dad learned to golf was the worst day of our lives.” Sometime in 1994, Ed says, “Hey! Let’s have a golf tournament for the Caucus!” and the rest, as they say, is history. Ed suggested a few names, including “The Edwin M. Lee Invitational” and “The Edwin M. Lee Charity Golf Classic.” Since Ed really is the heart and soul of this tournament, those names would have been appropriate. But we still decided on the “Caucus Classic.”
I look over at Jason, who would have been a freshly graduated free-wheeling bachelor in 1994, and Matt, who would have been in elementary school. This tournament is older than my kids. Uh-oh. My turn to hit. Must stop thinking about being old. Not a good swing thought.
I fumble through the golf bag my husband has assembled for me. Since I play once a year, it’s like a goodie bag -- half the fun is finding out what’s inside. Heeeey, what’s this? He actually put the Lady Bertha driver in here! It’s the prettiest club in my bag. I usually hit my Uncle Min’s old Lynx 3 wood off the tee. But this Bertha looks so nice! Maybe I should try to hit it! No, maybe not. I could never hit it very well before. Too much flex. But maybe flex will be a good thing now, since I’m so old. Okay, I’ll try it. Why not?
THUNK. Sigh. Golf is harder than I remember. But I must persevere, because golf is a game of hope. There are multiple chances for redemption on every hole. (In my case, usually about four chances more per hole than you are supposed to have, but it is redemption, nonetheless.) I make the short walk over to my ball, and swing away. THUNK. Sigh. At least it went a little farther this time, and I can justify getting in the cart to actually ride over to my ball for the next shot. I continue my quest for redemption. I can hear my late father-in-law’s voice inside my head: “Golf is as easy as 1 (set-up), 2 (take it back), 3 (swing and follow through). Easy as 1, 2, 3.”
Okay, I can do this. Easy as 1 ... 2 ... 3 ...! Yes! The ball is in the air! It is going farther than I can spit! And in the general direction of the hole! I did it! I am Tiger Woods! Golf is an awesome game! Oh, how I love this game! Oh, how I love watching the ball fly through the air instead of hitting some obscure not-supposed-to-be-in-play tiny little metal sign in front of the water hazard! I love golf!
The fairway reaches out to me with lush green open arms, its undulating terrain beckoning me to play on. Even the cattails seem to be reaching out to me. The course loves me. Golf is such an awesome game. I wonder why I don’t play more often? Golf is so much fun! Hmmm, what club should I hit next? This one looks good, I’ll just use this one. Nice and easy. Good, confident swing thoughts. Happy swing thoughts! Golf is as easy as 1... 2... THUNK. Sigh.
This game sucks.
“Hey, Matt -- did I play last year, or did I leave to watch the kids?” I ask Matt, the youngest member of our foursome, because he still remembers things.
“Yeah. I think you played about six holes,” he says with a smile. (It’s always good to say potentially disparaging things with a smile.)
“Huh. What hole are we on now?”
“This is the third hole.”
I groan silently at the thought of fifteen more holes of torture. Then I realize that I am not groaning silently, but that others can actually hear me. They can probably see me rolling my eyes, too.
By the sixth hole, I am enjoying my round. I have hit my stride, found my groove and am feelin’ groovy. Coincidentally, I have also stopped golfing, and am concentrating on eating snacks. I could use a Twix bar right now. And a Diet Coke. Where is that drink cart, anyway? I watch as my husband hits an incredible drive down the fairway, getting my redemption vicariously. Now this is fun and relaxing. It’s a beautiful day. Life is good.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
it's the pyro family
My family is gathered around the fireplace, eyes glazed over, my husband prodding the pile of burning wood to encourage more flame. Or something. I am not really sure what the point is, since I do not share the fascination with fire that my husband has. My children, apparently, have inherited the pyro gene from him, and they are enthralled with this fire building process.
It's a good thing that they are enjoying this activity, because we are on a tiny island in the San Juans, spending time with my husband's sister Cindy, her husband Richie, and their son Alex, in a cabin with no TV. We do have wi-fi, though. And the ability to make fire.
Richie has taken to calling us "the Pyro Family."
Living up to this new moniker, my husband and the kids built an impressive campfire last night, an architecturally-inspired pyre that was the same height as our daughter. The kids had discovered that if you put dried grasses on the fire, they make crackling, popping noises and create miniature pyrotechnic displays as the grasses writhe and fizzle into the flames. Like firecrackers. Must be a Chinese thing.
Whatever the case, our campfire was quite a sight, and our marshmallows were no match for its greatness. It took a while, but the fire eventually mellowed in a few spots to the right temperature, embers glowing, inviting us to give our marshmallows that lightly bronzed glow. Unfortunately, since I was really eager to eat my marshmallows, I had already flash-fried several of them over the blazing hot flames.
As I gazed into the campfire, I felt the tug of pyromania, but resisted easily. I do not seem to have the pyro gene. My husband is definitely a carrier, and he exhibited symptoms early on in life. As family legend goes, he was about four years old when he came running up to the kitchen and asked, “Mom? Can I have a glass of water?” Sensing something odd in his demeanor, she followed him down to the family room ... where the sofa had somehow caught on fire. Thanks to motherly intuition, this story is just amusing (in an oh-my-god-what-a-pyro kind of way), with a happy ending. My husband still waxes nostalgic as he recalls how much fun he was having lighting matches and watching Kleenex burn. How was he supposed to know the sofa would catch on fire, too? He was just a little kid! And burning Kleenex looks so cool!
Given the family history, I have tried to shield my kids from too many opportunities to experiment with fire. No need to tempt fate and genetics. But on this trip, we have actually encouraged the building of fires. And it has become pretty obvious that both of the kids have inherited the pyro gene. It has been an unexpected bonding experience, and “Hey, let’s build a fire!” has become a common refrain, laced with uncommon glee. In spite of my anxiety, I actually appreciate that they are having fun doing this activity together. Family time is a valuable commodity, even if it is Pyro Family time.
As I write this, my kids have successfully made a fire. Thankfully, it is in the fireplace.
It's a good thing that they are enjoying this activity, because we are on a tiny island in the San Juans, spending time with my husband's sister Cindy, her husband Richie, and their son Alex, in a cabin with no TV. We do have wi-fi, though. And the ability to make fire.
Richie has taken to calling us "the Pyro Family."
Living up to this new moniker, my husband and the kids built an impressive campfire last night, an architecturally-inspired pyre that was the same height as our daughter. The kids had discovered that if you put dried grasses on the fire, they make crackling, popping noises and create miniature pyrotechnic displays as the grasses writhe and fizzle into the flames. Like firecrackers. Must be a Chinese thing.
Whatever the case, our campfire was quite a sight, and our marshmallows were no match for its greatness. It took a while, but the fire eventually mellowed in a few spots to the right temperature, embers glowing, inviting us to give our marshmallows that lightly bronzed glow. Unfortunately, since I was really eager to eat my marshmallows, I had already flash-fried several of them over the blazing hot flames.
As I gazed into the campfire, I felt the tug of pyromania, but resisted easily. I do not seem to have the pyro gene. My husband is definitely a carrier, and he exhibited symptoms early on in life. As family legend goes, he was about four years old when he came running up to the kitchen and asked, “Mom? Can I have a glass of water?” Sensing something odd in his demeanor, she followed him down to the family room ... where the sofa had somehow caught on fire. Thanks to motherly intuition, this story is just amusing (in an oh-my-god-what-a-pyro kind of way), with a happy ending. My husband still waxes nostalgic as he recalls how much fun he was having lighting matches and watching Kleenex burn. How was he supposed to know the sofa would catch on fire, too? He was just a little kid! And burning Kleenex looks so cool!
Given the family history, I have tried to shield my kids from too many opportunities to experiment with fire. No need to tempt fate and genetics. But on this trip, we have actually encouraged the building of fires. And it has become pretty obvious that both of the kids have inherited the pyro gene. It has been an unexpected bonding experience, and “Hey, let’s build a fire!” has become a common refrain, laced with uncommon glee. In spite of my anxiety, I actually appreciate that they are having fun doing this activity together. Family time is a valuable commodity, even if it is Pyro Family time.
As I write this, my kids have successfully made a fire. Thankfully, it is in the fireplace.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
So Cal Diving
"Mom! Do you have any coins for us to dive for?"
My kids are splashing around in their Aunty D's pool, which is empty except for the two of them. It's like their own private oasis, here in sunny California. The rest of the gated community is at work, while we are on vacation and soaking up the UV rays. Aside from one action packed day at Disneyland, our trip to my childhood hometown has been very low-key. We spent a couple days making the circuit from the pool to Pinkberry, another day visiting with my cousins at the beach in the LB, another day at the LA County Museum of Art to see the Price collection of Japanese art, followed by ramen for lunch back in Torrance and a visit to the Redondo Beach dog park -- and all the in-between times filled with my kids being indulged by their obaachan (grandmother).
I empty the change pocket of my wallet, and toss ten coins into the pool. Six quarters, two pennies, a nickel and a dime. One dollar and sixty-seven cents. A buck sixty-seven does not buy much these days, but it is good for several dives to the bottom of the pool and at least a few summer memories for my kids. Chances are good that this handful of change will be remembered at least as much -- if not more than -- the four hundred dollars we just dropped at Disneyland the other day. Yes, it is the simple little pleasures that often make our summers special; joy has no price tag, and memories seem to have an inverse correlation to the amount of time, effort and money one's parents have put into making a "special" day for a child.
As I am writing this, I realize that this is ironic in a bad way. All of a sudden, I feel exhausted.
Better get some sleep. Interstate 5 is waiting for me.
My kids are splashing around in their Aunty D's pool, which is empty except for the two of them. It's like their own private oasis, here in sunny California. The rest of the gated community is at work, while we are on vacation and soaking up the UV rays. Aside from one action packed day at Disneyland, our trip to my childhood hometown has been very low-key. We spent a couple days making the circuit from the pool to Pinkberry, another day visiting with my cousins at the beach in the LB, another day at the LA County Museum of Art to see the Price collection of Japanese art, followed by ramen for lunch back in Torrance and a visit to the Redondo Beach dog park -- and all the in-between times filled with my kids being indulged by their obaachan (grandmother).
I empty the change pocket of my wallet, and toss ten coins into the pool. Six quarters, two pennies, a nickel and a dime. One dollar and sixty-seven cents. A buck sixty-seven does not buy much these days, but it is good for several dives to the bottom of the pool and at least a few summer memories for my kids. Chances are good that this handful of change will be remembered at least as much -- if not more than -- the four hundred dollars we just dropped at Disneyland the other day. Yes, it is the simple little pleasures that often make our summers special; joy has no price tag, and memories seem to have an inverse correlation to the amount of time, effort and money one's parents have put into making a "special" day for a child.
As I am writing this, I realize that this is ironic in a bad way. All of a sudden, I feel exhausted.
Better get some sleep. Interstate 5 is waiting for me.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
wild ride at midnight
I learned something new today: if you don't want to wait in a long line to go on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disneyland, just wait until it's almost midnight. By that time, the target demographic of Fantasyland has moved on to see Mr. Sandman, and the wait time for Mr. Toad is down to under ten minutes. This was an unplanned discovery, since I had no intention of staying till midnight. But the day just seemed to go on and on and on in the sweltering heat, until suddenly, like Cinderella, we looked up at the clock and it was almost midnight.
As we had gone through our top five list of rides -- Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, Haunted Mansion, Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom and Finding Nemo -- I realized that my kids had never ridden most of the rides in Fantasyland when they were "little kids." Sure, they had ridden the carousel, the tea cups, It's a Small World and Dumbo, but that was about it. I was determined to have them ride some of the classic kiddie rides before we left today.
So, just before midnight, we found ourselves zipping through the lines for Mr. Toad, Snow White, Alice in Wonderland and Pinocchio, and I remembered something from my childhood: some of these rides were scary, and I didn't really like them as a child. The Snow White ride used to creep me out, with the wicked witch and all her wickedness. I did not recall the skeletons decorating this ride, and they seemed to be a bit much for the pre-school set. The Pinocchio ride started out with the giant bird cage hanging overhead, threatening to capture me and turn me into a donkey. And who is Mr. Toad, anyway? I did not remember his ride, at all -- especially not the part when wild-driving Mr. Toad plows you into a train, and then you find yourself in a very warm and humid room where everybody has red horns and there are flames all around. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride ends in hell.
Scary, yet symbolic in its own way: yes, folks, step right up with your super-tired toddlers and enjoy the ride -- hell is waiting for you right here in Fantasyland!
Ahh, yes, the happiest place on earth.
As we had gone through our top five list of rides -- Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, Haunted Mansion, Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom and Finding Nemo -- I realized that my kids had never ridden most of the rides in Fantasyland when they were "little kids." Sure, they had ridden the carousel, the tea cups, It's a Small World and Dumbo, but that was about it. I was determined to have them ride some of the classic kiddie rides before we left today.
So, just before midnight, we found ourselves zipping through the lines for Mr. Toad, Snow White, Alice in Wonderland and Pinocchio, and I remembered something from my childhood: some of these rides were scary, and I didn't really like them as a child. The Snow White ride used to creep me out, with the wicked witch and all her wickedness. I did not recall the skeletons decorating this ride, and they seemed to be a bit much for the pre-school set. The Pinocchio ride started out with the giant bird cage hanging overhead, threatening to capture me and turn me into a donkey. And who is Mr. Toad, anyway? I did not remember his ride, at all -- especially not the part when wild-driving Mr. Toad plows you into a train, and then you find yourself in a very warm and humid room where everybody has red horns and there are flames all around. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride ends in hell.
Scary, yet symbolic in its own way: yes, folks, step right up with your super-tired toddlers and enjoy the ride -- hell is waiting for you right here in Fantasyland!
Ahh, yes, the happiest place on earth.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
farther over the hill than I thought
9 year old daughter: "The movie is different from the book, because in the book, there is a younger man, a middle aged man, and a guy who is about, like, fifty ..."
me: "Wait. How old is the 'middle aged' man?"
daughter: "About, like, thirty."
Ouch.
me: "Wait. How old is the 'middle aged' man?"
daughter: "About, like, thirty."
Ouch.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Bye-bye, Baron
There he is, Baron Davis, ball at his hip, making that turn, blowing past some defender and pimping some Power Ade from on high. "Oh, Mom. That billboard makes me sad," says my daughter from the backseat. "I know. Me, too."
Baron, how could you? I know we didn't have the money to keep you, but we are still hurt. You left us for ... the Clippers?!!! Sigh.
My daughter has become quite a basketball fan, discussing trade rumors with her dad. After a brief visit to the land of Barbies, she moved on to Groovy Girl kingdom for a while, with visits into American Girl territory; we were relieved that she made a complete detour around Hannah Montana town, and now she has ventured into the world of sports talk and the Golden State Warriors. She has not quite abandoned her Groovy and American Girl friends, but there has been a definite shift. So her dad has a new person with whom he can discuss all that important information he gets about the team: hot off the Warriors blog or some ESPN feed. He must be happy to be able to talk to her about these things, and have her actually know who he is talking about, rather than telling me some critical trade information and have me respond, "Who?"
Thank goodness her dad hasn't recruited her into doing research for his fantasy league draft. Well, at least, not yet.
As incongruous as it might seem, she is apparently not the only little Asian American girl who likes to talk basketball. She is attending a Japanese American cultural summer school, where during their breaks, it seems that basketball is a popular topic. "So, Mom? At school, today, Sachi asked everybody: 'Okay, so who's sad that Baron Davis is going to the Clippers?' and almost everybody raised their hands. But so, like, yeah, then, Sachi said, 'That's okay, though, because now, Monta Ellis has his chance to shine!!!" My daughter says this last part with gleefulness and joy, the smile taking over her whole face.
Since then, my daughter greets every confirmed trade or non-trade with: "Now Marco Belinelli has his chance to shine!" or "Now Azubuke has his chance to shine!" or "Now [fill in the blank] has his chance to shine!" It's really quite cute, and reminds me that sometimes we need to recognize the wisdom that might come from the mouth of a nine year old. There's certainly nothing wrong with being hopeful. If she can be hopeful about the Warriors, well, then, there are certainly lots of things I can be optimistic about, too.
Okay, Monta -- don't let my girl down. It's your chance to shine.
Baron, how could you? I know we didn't have the money to keep you, but we are still hurt. You left us for ... the Clippers?!!! Sigh.
My daughter has become quite a basketball fan, discussing trade rumors with her dad. After a brief visit to the land of Barbies, she moved on to Groovy Girl kingdom for a while, with visits into American Girl territory; we were relieved that she made a complete detour around Hannah Montana town, and now she has ventured into the world of sports talk and the Golden State Warriors. She has not quite abandoned her Groovy and American Girl friends, but there has been a definite shift. So her dad has a new person with whom he can discuss all that important information he gets about the team: hot off the Warriors blog or some ESPN feed. He must be happy to be able to talk to her about these things, and have her actually know who he is talking about, rather than telling me some critical trade information and have me respond, "Who?"
Thank goodness her dad hasn't recruited her into doing research for his fantasy league draft. Well, at least, not yet.
As incongruous as it might seem, she is apparently not the only little Asian American girl who likes to talk basketball. She is attending a Japanese American cultural summer school, where during their breaks, it seems that basketball is a popular topic. "So, Mom? At school, today, Sachi asked everybody: 'Okay, so who's sad that Baron Davis is going to the Clippers?' and almost everybody raised their hands. But so, like, yeah, then, Sachi said, 'That's okay, though, because now, Monta Ellis has his chance to shine!!!" My daughter says this last part with gleefulness and joy, the smile taking over her whole face.
Since then, my daughter greets every confirmed trade or non-trade with: "Now Marco Belinelli has his chance to shine!" or "Now Azubuke has his chance to shine!" or "Now [fill in the blank] has his chance to shine!" It's really quite cute, and reminds me that sometimes we need to recognize the wisdom that might come from the mouth of a nine year old. There's certainly nothing wrong with being hopeful. If she can be hopeful about the Warriors, well, then, there are certainly lots of things I can be optimistic about, too.
Okay, Monta -- don't let my girl down. It's your chance to shine.
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